Perfect Offering
by darcyfarrow
Summary: When his wrongdoings place his child's and Belle's lives in danger, Rumple decides he has to change their fate, even if it means sacrificing himself. Possible spoiler for RumBaby's first name.
1. The Crow

**A/N. I'm sure, in an episode or two, the theories speculated in this story will prove groundless, but nevertheless, I feel the need to try to justify Rumple's horrible behavior of late, and why his son seems to hate him. The quotations that head each chapter of this story, as well as the title, are from Leonard Cohen's song "Anthem."**

 **Once upon a time, birds were used as offerings to God.**

* * *

Chapter 1: The Crow

 _"The birds they sang_  
 _At the break of day_  
 _Start again_  
 _I heard them say_  
 _Don't dwell on what_  
 _Has passed away_  
 _Or what is yet to be"_

"You think you're the mistress of mirror magic," he murmured past his reflection, to the spy behind the glass. "But you forget: a wise teacher will always hold back a few tricks from his brightest student." He waved his hand and the background of the dressing mirror suddenly blackened. Now he could study his reflection without interference. Satisfied, he examined what he'd done to himself, taking courage from it, before he spun on his heel. Behind him, he heard the angry cawing of a crow; over his shoulder he tossed a fireball, dislodging the bird from his windowsill. He sauntered from his bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him, not with his hands but with a single thought.

If the Evil Queen had been able to see him through his bedroom mirror, she would have understood immediately the significance of what she was seeing, and it would have alarmed her. He'd restored his hair to its former, shoulder-length glory, he'd traded his Armani for his Neverland leathers, and he'd painted four black stripes down the right side of his face. Those who accompanied him to Neverland would have called this his warrior look, but the Evil Queen knew better. This was how, in Neverland, expecting to die at Pan's hands, he had prepared his body for burial.

He didn't glance down as he whisked down the stairs, though habit nagged him to: he forced himself to remember he was no longer the middle-aged man who leaned on a cane. He didn't glance into his living room, where a handwoven lap blanket hung half off the couch and a stack of books, now gathering dust, competed with an empty, tea-stained mug for space on a side table. He didn't glance at the cell phone and keys lying in the dish on the kitchen bar, or the "Kiss the Cook" apron, with its marinara stains, draped over one of the kitchen chairs, nor the calendar, left at the October page, with a swirly red circle marking the 10th as "Henry's bdy."

He did pause to open, one last time, the leather binder lying on the kitchen table. "Last Will and Testament of Rumplestiltskin"—the title was typed in all capitals and boldfaced. It was, for Gold, an unusually brief and simple document, splitting his properties, cash and other assets equally between his grandson and his unborn son, to be managed by Mr. Dove until each child reached the age of majority. Nothing was left for his ex-wife; she wouldn't have taken it, anyway. If she needed anything, she could withdraw it from the substantial savings account he'd established for her on the day before their wedding.

He flipped through the will, scrutinizing it for errors, though he knew he'd find none: Gold never signed a legal document that wasn't flawless. On the last page were two signatures: his own and his witness', Eugenia Lucas. He'd signed his name as "Rumplestiltskin."

He closed the binder and with a flick of his fingers sent it on its way. When the Clerk of the Probate Court opened her office tomorrow, she'd find it waiting on her desk, and she'd know it to be legitimate and ironclad, from the coat of magic protecting it.

Without a second glance, he waved his hand again and abandoned his house.

* * *

He arrived at the well. If he squinted over his shoulder, he would see the faint shimmer of blue moonlight reflecting off the lake, and just beyond, sheltered under white cedars, his cabin. He'd planned to bring Henry here one day, but with one crisis after another, it had never happened. He'd hoped to share two of his secrets with Henry: that many days, when Storybrooke assumed he was holed up in his shop, hunched Scrooge-like over his ledgers, he was actually out here, fishing; and that sometimes, while he fished, he pretended to talk to Bae.

Henry would inherit the lake and the cabin now. Inside, if he searched the roller desk—and he would; Henry couldn't help but poke around in places he'd never been—he would find a sheath of handwritten pages meant for him and Emma to read. These pages related every incident Rumplestiltskin could remember from the life of his eldest son, from 2 weeks-14 years of age.

As for Gideon, a similar sheath waited in the mahogany desk in Gold's study. It would present to his son the life of the father he would never know—if Gideon chose to read it.

Rumplestiltskin would miss this place.

With a snap of his fingers, a rope ladder appeared, hooked to the lip of the well. He didn't really need it, but he liked the feel of the rope beneath his fingers; he had always been a tactile person. Belle had figured this out early in their relationship and touch—a casual press of hand against hand, a brush of shoulder against shoulder—had been their primary means of honest communication in the early days, belying the lies their mouths told. The first time she'd leaned in and pretended to steady herself by setting her hand on his arm, he'd seen through her game—and he'd allowed it. He had no choice. It made him giddy, like a heady wine, and after that, he was addicted.

With the ladder he lowered himself into the well. His eyes adjusted easily to the darkness, and the cool dampness closing around him gave him a feeling of security, something that he'd seldom experienced in his long life. He breathed in the thick air. A few feet below flowed the waters that would lead, if one had the right magic to walk across them, to Lake Nostros. Rumplestiltskin didn't possess that magic.

He stopped midway down the well, felt around in the dark, sliding his hand over the slimy walls of the well until he found the loose brick. He pried it out, slipped it under his arm, then reached into the vacant space. Inside he found a narrow iron lockbox. Tucking the box between his waistcoat and his jacket for safekeeping, he replaced the brick and climbed back to the top. On dry land again, he rested the box on the well's lip and with a drop of blood pricked from his fingertip, he sprang the lock.

The contents were safe. One ancient magical dagger, bearing his name. And one heavily used heart.

He stuffed the dagger into his jacket. The cold blade immediately warmed against his skin, humming, almost as if it were alive and pleased to be back where it belonged. The heart—that was another story. He raised it to eye-level and examined it in the moonlight. He didn't like what he found. Oh, he wasn't disturbed by the coal-black that consumed four-fifths of his heart: he expected to find that. It was the bright red speck that throbbed in the middle.

He thought he'd squelched that days ago.

It was her fault of course. Every time he heard her laugh through the library's open windows—every time she slipped doctor's reports and sonograms under the shop door—every time he walked into Granny's for his morning coffee only to find her in their favorite booth, scarfing down pancakes for two—every time he passed her portrait on the bedroom wall—every time he found a forgotten high heel in the back of their closet—every time she touched him in his dreams, she shot fresh life into his heart and that bright spot grew.

He'd had to go crawling into the Evil Queen's bed to chase Belle's ghost away.

And when nothing he'd said and nothing he'd done to steel himself against her proved enough, he'd remembered what Cora had resorted to, and he ripped his heart out. It was the only way he could survive.

And now he needed this dying heart to carry out his last act of magic. Without it—without, he had to admit, that bright speck of love, he'd never have the courage to see this through. He shoved the organ back into his chest and squirmed under the sudden added weight. It felt cold as well as heavy.

"Where are you when I finally want you here?" he muttered.

"Well, it's about time, dearie." The smooth, oh-so-confident laugh, the polished accent (he always was a sucker for accents) whispered fondly, conspiratorially, in his ear.

Nimue.

"Welcome."

"I should say the same to you. Though I will admit, I'm still rather miffed, after all your attempts to stifle me." Still a conniver, she tried to manipulate him with flirtatious pouting. "Really, Rumple, I should be insulted."

"Never mind," he grunted. After long years of practice, he was immune to her tricks. He'd summoned her to use her, nothing more.

Realizing this, she dropped the act. "All right. What do you want?"

He opened his palm and a rusted metal gadget appeared in his hand. At one end of its thick body were two small loops, for fingers to fit in; at the other, two small blades, to cut with.

"The Shears of Destiny. I've only seen pictures, heard stories. How did you get them?" From the admiration in her voice, Rumple knew Nimue longed to touch them. Too bad she couldn't and he wouldn't give her the pleasure of doing it for her. In fact, he pocketed them in his jacket, just to annoy her.

"Doesn't matter. The question is: how do I get to _them_? The Moirai?"

"For that you'd have to find Zeus' palace on Mount Olympus."

"How do I get there?"

"For the living, by invitation only. For the dead, well, you'd have to be either very very heroic—"

"Or?"

"Very very interesting. So Zeus would want to have a look at you."

"As I have no intention of dying just yet, how do I get an invitation?"

"I think you have a calling card right there." He could feel a hand pressing against his chest, where the Shears lay. "Atropos is going to want those back. They're one of a kind."

"Of course." He could kick himself for not thinking of it himself. He'd placed his plan in danger by summoning Nimue. However, he didn't know how to summon a Moira, so Nimue could be necessary after all.

She picked up on his thoughts, as she often had. "They hardly ever involve themselves directly with people. It might cloud their objectivity, you know. But for those Shears, I think they'll make an exception. Simply show them what you have and call for the rightful owner."

It sounded too easy, but he knew well the importance a single magical object could have to its owner. "Silence, now."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this for all the realms," Nimue hushed.

He stepped away from the well: that was _his_ special place and he didn't want to surrender it to a higher authority. He found a clearing, closer to the lake, and he conjured a little table—an altar—upon which to set the Shears. To the casual eye, lying there unguarded in the moonlight, the Shears would be easily to take, but with a flick of his hand an invisible chain connected the Shears to his wrist. A tug and he could have them in his hand again. Ready now, he raised his eyes to the sky and shouted. He wasn't really sure how it worked for gods, but to be on the safe side, he called her name three times.

"I am Atropos." The voice behind him made him jump. It was rusty, like the Shears, and deep as a well and slow as venom. He swung about. She was ghastly, what he could see of her beyond her hooded cloak. Her face appeared to be made of alabaster stone, deeply rutted by the waters of time, and the gash of her mouth didn't move as she spoke. But the worst was her eyes, black as obsidian, and dead.

He'd seen illustrations of her. The artists had captured her likeness truthfully.

"And those belong to me." But she didn't attempt to take them. In fact, she didn't move. She seemed to expect the Shears to be brought to her. "Stolen, by one more powerful than you."

He didn't rise to her insult. He'd had three hundred years of learning how to resist Nimue's bait; he could withstand a few cutting remarks.

"I too am a Spinner—"

"I know what you are."

All right, she wouldn't be won over by false connection. He'd worked with this type before. He would go directly for the deal. "I'll return the Shears as soon as I've finished with them."

"Others have tried. All have failed. You will find it's impossible to change your fate with magic, even mine." She turned her back on him. "You will soon learn why I am called 'The Inexorable.'"

She began to walk away. He assumed he was meant to follow, so he yanked the Shears to his hand and took a single step.

And then the world went white.


	2. The Owl

Chapter 2: The Owl

 **A/N. Additional quotations in this chapter are from OUAT. I'm not following the lyrics to "Anthem" in correct order—the next chapter will make it obvious why I've rearranged them.**

* * *

 _"You can add up the parts_  
 _You won't have the sum_  
 _You can strike up the march_  
 _There is no drum_  
 _Every heart, every heart to love will come_  
 _But like a refugee"_

No one, not even Belle, had heard this story. She hadn't asked—whether it was out of concern that the remembering of it would traumatize him further or whether, in the unbroken series of crisis after crisis, she'd just forgotten to ask him, he didn't know. And he never, ever would bring up the subject, not because of the horrors of reliving the memory—he had a few far worse memories, to tell the truth, and what had happened to him in the afterlife was, to tell another truth, probably deserved. He wouldn't share his afterlife story with anyone because then they'd know Storybrooke had been right about him all along. He just couldn't bear the thought of the smug looks on those heroes' faces if they found out divine justice was a fact.

His Underworld story was just one of the bricks in the wall of secrets between him and Belle. And that wall was the second biggest regret of his overlong life. (Losing Baelfire the first time had dropped to #3: failing to act honestly when he had the chance to reunite with Bae had taken the top slot. How could he have given the imposter the truth—"I was a coward and I never should have let you go"—but when he finally, finally after two hundred years, had the chance to share that truth with his real son, he fell back on the failsafe cheat—"I can turn the clock back, make you fourteen again"?)

No one knew, then, what had happened to him in the moment he died. He'd hinted at it by suggesting to the heroes he'd seen the Underworld before, but no one had bothered to ask him what he'd seen, let alone what he experienced, there. So shortsighted in their haste, these heroes: one would think they'd want as much information about their destination as possible before actually journeying there. Maybe, he'd mused as they boarded Charon's boat, that was what enabled them to be so brave: they just didn't think ahead.

His memory of the moment was crystal clear, perhaps because, despite death being the event he'd always feared the most, when it actually came upon him, he felt remarkably calm. Not at peace—he was furious that his father had robbed him once again of a family, and even more furious that God or the gods or the Fates or Whoever had permitted Pan this final victory. If Whoever truly wanted villains to reform, then why, at the moment of reformation, snatch life away from him? Why not let him live and test the permanence of his newfound goodness?

If, indeed, goodness was the reason for his self-sacrifice. Even now, he couldn't be sure just how pure his intentions were at the moment he thrust his dagger into his father's and his own bodies. Maybe hatred had more to do with it, hatred of himself as much as of Malcolm.

He can remember every sight, sound and smell of the moment just after the blade pierced his chest. The shock on Henry's, Snow's and David's faces. The disbelief on Regina's. The flicker of satisfaction on Hook's. The fear on Belle's. And the rage on Pan's—Pan, yes, because though the magic had reclaimed his youthful form, Pan was all Malcolm had ever really been, not Fauna and Flora's nephew, and never, ever, Rumple's father.

His last vision of the "real" world was of Bae, who seemed to grasp more quickly than anyone else what was happening—Bae, who realized that his eyes were the last Rumple would ever see, and who gave him a final gift. Under Pan's spell, Bae couldn't speak, but he didn't have to; his eyes spoke for him: _I'm proud of you, Papa_.

Rumple had clutched that vision tight to his broken chest as he left life. In the next moment, his head had spun; he must have fallen, though he didn't feel his body hit the ground and his vision had abandoned him. When he no longer felt dizzy and his eyes focused, he found himself lying flat on his back on pavement. When he managed to sit up, he found himself in the middle of Main Street, his shop, so comfortably familiar, on his left and the library on his right. But something, several somethings weren't right: the red sky. The craterlike holes in the street. The clock tower, toppled to the sidewalk as if struck by a wrecking ball or magic. The lack of movement, not even the ripple of a breeze. The silence.

He hauled himself to his feet and examined his body. No hole in his chest, no pain anywhere, not even in his ankle. He stared at his hands as he demanded that his magic make itself known, but they remained just hands. The stone in his ring had turned black.

He straightened his tie, brushed off the seat of his trousers. He called for Bae and Belle, but of course there was no answer and he fully understood why. He just wasn't quite ready to face reality yet. He started walking—not to the shop, because he wasn't ready to open that door. Not to his house. Just walking. He couldn't hear his footfalls. He searched for anyone, any living thing: a rumbling car engine, a barking dog, a bird on a wire. He knew he wouldn't find anything, but he wasn't ready to not try, so he walked, all the way to the edge of town, then beyond, down the highway that so few had ever traveled. It felt good to move; it felt better to pretend.

When he came to the orange line that separated Storybrooke from the Land Without Magic, he passed over without hesitation. As soon his feet left the line, he felt his body jerk. He hadn't even blinked, but suddenly, he was flat on his back again. When he sat up, he discovered on his left, his shop and on his right, the library.

He heard a laugh.

He got up and walked again.

There were no clues as to the passing of time. The sky never darkened. The hands of the clock in the toppled tower never moved. No doors opened, no cars rolled down the street toward home, no voices called for children to come in for supper. He didn't even grow weary or sore as he walked, over and over, to the orange line, and got bounced back, over and over, to the junction of Main and Third.

There was only that laugh, every time he was jerked back to the street, and his thoughts.

He lost count of the trips he made to the town line, but finally he worked up the nerve to accept the inevitable. He stood before the darkened window of his shop and tried to peer in, but the glass was covered in dust from the inside. Nothing for it then: he had to open the door. The little bell jingled, joyously, he thought; at last, a sound. He stood on the threshold to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Yes, everything was here: the Mickey Mouse phone in the glass case, the chess set and the cash register—which he'd never once used, but only Belle knew that—on top of the case, the rowboat and the bicycle overhead, the puppets and beer steins on the counter, the swords and landscape paintings on the walls.

The Peter Pan doll. The chipped cup.

He laughed then, a harsh bark of a laugh. Whoever had set this world up had screwed up. He'd left the doll in Neverland, the cup in slivers in the woods.

The rings on the curtain that separated the showroom from the workroom jangled as the curtain was shoved aside. In the open space, in black Armani, stood Mr. Gold, arms folded. Smirking. "Hello, dearie."

He spun and ran. Sweating, he sought refuge in the library. He ran past the circulation desk, the elevator, ran up and down the stacks. "Belle," he panted, "Belle," but he really didn't expect an answer. He was, after all, dead, and she wasn't. He heard a chair squeak in the children's department and he ran there. He forced himself to slow: running wasn't Rumplestiltskin's style. In all the years since the night he crippled himself, he'd run only once: when he'd briefly escaped Zelena.

Belle's rocking chair, the one she sat in for story time, was rocking. By itself.

Behind him, he heard a high-pitched giggle. He wheeled about. Mounted on the back of the stuffed giraffe was the glitter-skinned Imp.

As he rocked to and fro on the giraffe, the Imp giggled and wiggled his fingers in greeting. "Hello, dearie."

Granny's. It held no memories of safety for him, but it was nearby, so he ran there. If there was another soul in this town, in this Hell, he'd find it here. He shoved the rattling door open. Yes! A small, slight form was perched on a round vinyl seat at the counter. A child! He sighed in relief and approached slowly, as not to frighten the child away. In front of the child were a tin cup and a wooden plate. As he came closer he smelled the plate's contents: peas, carrots and chunks of chicken in gravy and shielded by a flaky crust. A meat pie.

The boy spun on his seat. His unkempt hair fell into his fearful, large eyes. A drop of milk dripped down his chin and onto his brown woolen tunic. When his thin lips parted, he looked so lonely. His voice was faint and hesitant. "Hello, dearie."

Rumple backed out, the door slamming in his face.

The pink house. He could take shelter there. No one but Emma and his savior Belle had ever entered the house. A mile's run, but he understood by now he couldn't feel tired. He couldn't feel _anything_ except dread and a growing anxiety that this was his forever. He burst into the back door.

In the kitchen, seated on a bar stool and quaffing from a beer stein, proud in his brand-new tunic which he'd woven himself for his wedding day, was a grinning young peasant. "Hello, dearie."

In the study, standing at a Great Wheel, was a figure in leather trousers and a brown silk shirt. Long strings of gold dribbled from his fingers. "Hello, dearie."

In his bed, one long leg propped on the other, lay a teenager pouting at the ceiling. He didn't bother to sit up when Rumple thrust the door open, but he did rather dourly offer the greeting: "Hello, dearie."

In the basement, behind shelves of potions and powders and spell books cowered a cloaked figure. As Rumple stared at him, he grasped his walking stick defensively, but he managed to whisper, "Hello, dearie."

In the garden, an owl screeched at him from his apple tree. Under the branches, dressed head to toe in black leather armor, Goldstiltskin streaked ash down his right eye as his shadow cavorted in the flames of a campfire. "Hello, dearie."

And from somewhere above, someone mocked, "It's forever, dearie."

* * *

"Take the car, say goodbye to your father, and then start living." (Because the rest of us are marked and have started dying.)

He'd chased her away so many times before. It never got easier, not even when she left eagerly, under the deception that she could come back again someday.

She would have been furious with him for lying to her yet again, even more furious that he hadn't given her an informed choice. Nobody decided her fate but her, she liked to boast. But that was before she'd clapped eyes on the Shears of Destiny. He wondered, as she sauntered out onto the street, whether she would have done the hero thing, if he'd told her the truth. Or maybe the hero thing wouldn't have been to stay and watch the Dark army subsume Storybrooke; maybe it would have taken more courage to drive away, leaving the doomed ones behind.

He'd been through this before, not so long ago, the threat of Storybrooke's annihilation, and he'd chickened out then, breaking Belle free of the Lacey curse so that she could comfort him as they waited to die. It hadn't happened then, but this time, it was certain. He'd said it himself: "This is Death itself. This is a fight we cannot win."

This time he'd done right by her. He'd thought that was where he'd take his comfort this time, in his small act of bravery, as well a bottle of thirty-year-old Glenfiddich. But Ms. Swan assumed that, Dark One or no, she was still the savior, and Regina had never been good about following his instructions to the letter. They'd upset his backpatting/self-pity party with their foolish plans: Swan would trump his suicidal sacrifice with Pan by taking each and every Dark One down with her as she killed herself. Let her have her hero moment. They'd all die regardless.

But when he lifted Excalibur down from his workroom shelf, his brilliant mind flared to life. Just as cunning without the Dark Ones whispering in his head, the old Imp awoke and birthed a plan of his own: he could save the savior and take back his magic—and then some—in a single stroke, as it were. A quick spell on Excalibur and the sword became a conduit that magic could traverse, all the way into Rumplestiltskin's soul, where it had co-existed with the Spinner and Little Rum for three hundred years. Where it belonged.

There wasn't time to reconsider. To ask himself what he really wanted, what was right, what would make Belle and Bae proud. There was only time to cast the spell and carry the ancient sword to its new owner. After all, he'd managed to control the Darkness—well, most of the time—well, much of the time—hadn't he? It would be safe with him. And how could this be a wrong choice, when Excalibur had practically set its stamp of approval on him? "That blade chooses who it finds worthy, and it chooses its miracles."

He almost spoke up as Emma presented herself for her sacrifice, almost stopped it all from happening as he reflected that this would leave his grandson an orphan. One parent's self-sacrifice should be enough for any child to have to bear. But the damned pirate intervened, and though the Darkness had been sucked from Rumple's soul and his heart had been scrubbed clean, all his memories were intact, and faces leapt to the fore: Malcolm, Hordor, Milah, the Black Fairy, the Blue Fairy. The feelings of hatred, fear, humiliation and inadequacy were as fresh as if the acts of bullying had occurred yesterday. And in the final moment, he heard _their_ voices: "As far as I'm concerned, you can stay the hell away from both of us." "You've broken my heart too many times." Not good enough, not even when he was Good.

Bae was dead. Belle was gone. The only time Henry had wanted anything to do with him was when the boy was trying to manipulate him. Not that he could blame the kid; he _had_ started to kill him once, and no amount of running around Neverland would ever make up for that. In fact, everyone in this town had openly expressed their relief in his death and their disappointment in his resurrection. When Zelena had made him her slave, who'd mounted a rescue attempt? When she'd killed Bae, who stepped forward to counsel Rumple in his grief? Who'd promised justice for Bae's murder? When Rumple had finally been freed, who came to welcome him back and check on his welfare? Who had so much as offered him a damn cup of coffee after a year of beatings and near starvation? If he remained magic-less, who would fight for him against the next Cora or Zelena? Rumplestiltskin was as alone in this world as he had been in the last.

At least, in a bizarre way, Nimue cared. Or claimed to, on empty days when he wept at his wheel for Bae, on cold nights when he ached for Belle. "Everyone leaves you, but I never will. No one cares what becomes of you, but I always will."

As Emma thrust Excalibur into the pirate's belly, Rumple the Pure-Hearted felt a stab of pain—a very brief one that was immediately followed by a sheen of joy and a dusting of peace, because at long last, he was avenged for his cuckoldry and free of his Ahab. But those warm fuzzies lasted barely two seconds before his body twitched under the electric shock of an infusion of power the magnitude of which no soul had ever borne. And such warmth and acceptance and affection flooded him as a hundred Dark Ones streaked into his consciousness and took up residence once again. "Hello, dearie," Nimue purred, almost flirtatious as she wrapped herself around his heart. "Thank you for inviting us back." He felt her stretch out across his soul. "It's so much more spacious here now." She didn't have to point out why there was room in his heart now. Hope had taken up a lot of space there, until the day Belle broke off their marriage.

"So good to be home now!" Nimue sighed contentedly.

Home. Yes. Protected. And loved.

* * *

 **A/N. Trying to stay close to canon proved difficult here, because in "Swan Song" Rumple said he'd already seen the Underworld and it made the fabled fire and brimstone of Hell seem tame by comparison. Yet, in "Souls of the Departed," it was made clear that he hadn't previously encountered any of the denizens of Underbrooke, because he was surprised to see Pan there; in "Devil's Due," Milah is surprised to see Rumple and Hades implies he's only watched Rumple from afar. All this makes me wonder, if Underbrooke wasn't the version of the Underworld that Rumple saw when he died, what** **did** **he see? What would he consider horrible? I thought the way to get him to work up enough nerve to look into the "buildings" of his private Underbrooke would be to give him a Sisyphean task (after 300 years of fruitless attempts to find Bae, I figure his patience is worn). Oh, and by the way, what Sisyphus was being punished for? It was lying, manipulating and scheming.**


	3. The Dove

Chapter 3: The Dove

 _"Yeah the wars they will_  
 _Be fought again_  
 _The holy dove_  
 _She will be caught again_  
 _Bought and sold_  
 _And bought again_  
 _The dove is never free"_

* * *

 **Two Weeks Ago**

She was the Goddess of Love; _of course_ humans prayed to her. She was the most beloved and worshiped and prayed-to Olympian from the very beginning, and the adulation only increased year by year, decade by decade. Some days, she was so besieged with their pleas that she had to tune them out to get any peace. Thousands upon thousands of prayers were sent up to her every day; every human city contained at least one temple dedicated to her, where worshipers would shout out her name as they made love upon her altar; poor and rich alike made sacrifices to her, even when it meant going hungry for a day or two in order to spare the coin for her preferred gift, a white male goat, or from the most humble, a basket of honey cakes. The entire civilized world held a week-long party in her honor. She was the _queen_ of adulation, outstripping Hera, outstripping, most days, even Zeus. Yes, thousands upon thous—

Well, not so much, lately. Not so much, in fact, in the past two or three millennia. And especially not from _that_ nation, that busy, bustling, noisy, uncouth nation that, when they took the time to worship at all, focused their attentions on one god. So when she began receiving daily prayers from a small village in the northern part of that village, she took notice, and when she looked further and discovered just how extraordinary that particular village was, she started listening. Just out of curiosity, of course, and just out amusement she thought she might grant the man's prayers, if he'd only be a little more specific about what he wanted.

It didn't hurt either that the man's name was Dove. She'd always been partial to the bird.

So one afternoon, with nothing better to do, she transformed herself into a delicate, pure-white dove and flew down to this village Storybrooke. If nothing else, she'd gain a few stories to tell around the dinner table. It was exceedingly rare for a god to visit humans these days.

Her entire body vibrated as soon as she entered the skies above the village. This puzzled her, as the day was quiet and the wind, still. When her body adjusted, she still felt a hot tingle at the tips of her feathers. She landed on the highest branch of an apple tree (a sacred plant, its fruit assumed to be an aphrodisiac) and studied the scene below: motored carriages rumbling down rock roads, groups of uniformed children trotting into a brick building, men and women in colorful dress—some of those skirts were deliciously scandalously short—walking to work. On a park bench, a woman in a red leather jacket was producing little balls of fire out of thin air, letting them dance in her palm before extinguishing them with a blow of wind from her mouth.

Ah, yes, that was what made her feathers tingle. Magic. That's what was different here. So few humans practiced the art any more.

She soared closer, enjoying the view; it had been so long since she communed with humans, and they'd always been so much fun. She sailed easily on a warm breeze, just listening and watching her favorite creatures interact with each other, until another prayer invoked her name and reminded her why she'd come. She perched on an oak overhanging a small garden behind a small cottage. A man—her man—was on his knees in the rich earth. Before him sat a basket of just-picked tomatoes (another aphrodisiac). He held the largest of them in his palm. His head snapped up as she fluttered her wings and he smiled into the sky.

"You've come." He dipped his head in supplication before raising it again to search the tree. He picked her out immediately. "In your honor, my lady," he said, and clutching a medallion at his throat he chanted something she didn't recognize, and the air crackled and his body was encased briefly in a cloud. When the cloud dissipated, he was gone.

Or rather, he was perched beside her, in the form of a humble tan mourning dove. "A gift from my employer, a powerful sorcerer. The charm enables me to transform to my original self, for just a few minutes."

She wouldn't allow herself to be impressed, though she recalled that such transformations were terribly difficult to achieve; she assumed he'd done this to demonstrate to her that he wasn't bragging about his master's skill. More curious now, she cocked her head. "Your prayers interested me. You pray not for yourself, even though you have no lover of your own. Nor do you pray on behalf of a sister or brother. You pray for your master."

He dipped his head in acknowledgement. "And my friend."

"The request intrigues me. Powerful sorcerers seldom require help from a god."

"I care for him. Many years ago, in another land, he rescued me from a storm and mended my broken wing. He has treated me well ever since. And his wife is both gentle and brave, and I care for her and their unborn child as well."

Aphrodite considered this and found no corruption in it. "What does such a powerful man need that he can't conjure for himself?" But of course she knew the answer already; even the most powerful of humans prayed to her for the one thing they couldn't command.

"He loves his wife and his child with all his heart, and his wife loves him with all the strength of hers, but there's a division between them that's broken their marriage."

"Dark magic," she said. "His. And intolerance and impatience. Hers."

He shrugged. "She's about to become a mother."

"I understand. My own children have. . . tamed me. Somewhat." She thought it over. "So different, and yet, their love is true. A gift from my own hands." She fluttered her wings. "It angers me that they abuse it so. That they don't trust it, lean on it for comfort, call upon its powers for healing. It ruffles my feathers, so to speak."

He chuckled and fluttered his own wings in reply. "She is unfamiliar with what true love can do, I suppose, growing up in a house without any, and in a time of war."

"And he. . . ." She lifted her head to wind, sampling it. "He's known true love, through his son, but he doesn't trust it."

"The dark voices blot it out," Dove explained. "He is the Dark One and has been for centuries."

"But before that, when he had his son's love, and when he returned it with a pure heart, he was still doubtful."

"Abandoned by both father and mother. Small and scrawny and lame, often bullied. Friendless," Dove defended his employer.

"Except for you."

"Until Belle came along."

"And he drove her away with his doubts. The dark voices chided him, threatened what he would return to, if she stole away his magic." Aphrodite lightened her tone. "You see? I have been listening."

"Then you know it's not just them. Their child, a product of true love and dark magic—"

"Will be very special indeed. Unique. I'll be most interested in seeing what he becomes. This particular mating has never happened before. The result will be as interesting as when we gods used to take human lovers."

"He could change things here." She understood he meant more than just Storybrooke. "Drastically. Either for great good or—"

"Not," she finished for him. "Yes, I see there's much at stake. I've always been fond of humans, you know. And I do hate it when my gifts are ignored."

"Will you help, then?"

"I'll consider it," she conceded. "It's been a long time since one of us was asked, an even longer time since we intervened."

"I'll continue to ask, then." If he were in human form, he'd smile at her.

"I'll continue to listen."

* * *

 **Present Day**

When colors and shapes began to reform in front of his eyes, Rumple shook off the dizziness. Magical transportation shouldn't phase him at this stage in life, but then, he'd never made such a huge leap, moving not just from magical realm to magical realm but from a human world to a gods-only world. He had to admit he couldn't have made the jump on his own.

He glanced to his right, where his escort was waiting silently for him to regain his senses. She offered no support or encouragement in his recovery. That was all right; he was used to receiving no sympathy, and so he'd learned not to show weakness. That fortitude had kept him alive during his year of slavery.

That fortitude, and the certainty of Belle's love.

He allowed himself to draw in a deep, head-clearing breath as he looked around. Clouds blocked his view on all sides, but he sensed a tall structure just beyond, so big that he couldn't see the ends of it. When he glanced down he saw they were standing on a cloud, or at least, their feet were engulfed in one. He raised an eyebrow toward his host.

"It's an illusion. One that you humans seem to favor," Atropos sounded bored. "A city in the clouds. Not very imaginative, but then, your minds are so limited." She waved a hand and the clouds parted. He could see solid ground—white marble—beneath his feet. The structure ahead of them, a mansion so tall he couldn't count the stories, had been constructed of gold. Or so it appeared. He knew better now than to trust his limited senses. He would watch Atropos from the corner of his eye and follow where she led.

Though she faced ahead, he felt her watching him too as she stepped forward. They climbed a long set of stairs leading past the mansion's mighty columns to the heavy bolted doors. With a stomp of her foot, the doors swung inward and she entered. Her feet made no sound on the gold tiles, though his Italian loafers clicked. He could hear himself breathing heavily in the foyer, empty but for a dove that perched upon a door casing. The bird flapped its wings as they passed by. As they passed through a deep room into another, he couldn't judge the functions of these spaces, because there were no furnishings or draperies or wall hangings of any kind, just walls and windows that looked out upon clouds.

"You are the first," she informed him. He understood: the first human to be permitted inside, whatever this building was. "Touch nothing." There was nothing to touch, as far as he could tell. Or maybe there was and his senses couldn't perceive it. They passed through more rooms—he lost count but the weight on his ankles suggested they were moving up an incline. The rooms seemed to connect in a circle, or rather a spiral since it led upward, though from the outside the building had appeared a traditional rectangle. He didn't tire as they climbed, though his sense of time—impeccable in the "real" world; he could gauge the passing of a minute down to two seconds' accuracy. It was a skill he'd perfected in the centuries of searching for Bae—told him they'd arrived ninety minutes ago.

They must have reached another level, because now they seemed to be in a corridor between closed rooms. On each door symbols had been etched into the door. After a while he could read them. In Misthaven he'd become, by necessity, a student of many languages, and though that talent hadn't transferred to Storybrooke, he remembered enough of what he'd learned to detect patterns. Or at least, that was the scientific explanation he offered himself as some of the symbols seem to become readable. Names. Some ringing a distant bell: Ganymede. Telemachus. Leonidas. Aristotle. Socrates. Euclid. Archimedes. Homer. Plato. Alexander. The names blurred as they kept walking up and up. Wing after wing, they seemed to be passing through eras of human history: Genghis. Augustus. Julius. Michelangelo. Leonardo. Dante. Elizabeth. William. Louis. Vincent. Ludwig. Voltaire. Matisse.

His head was spinning by the time they'd reached Lincoln, Bowie, Einstein, Columbus, Keaton and Cohen.

"Wait." He paused before the door labeled "Tina." "They aren't all dead."

"This isn't a mausoleum" was her only reply before she forced them to move on.

Chastised, he found another excuse to complain: "No order. Not chronological, not alphabetical, not even by profession. Or significance, as best I can tell."

"All lives are significant." Her voice was cold. "But the Dark One would not understand that." She stopped in front of a door and set her hand on the knob. "But you will." As she pushed the door inward, he read its plate: "Rumplestiltskin."

He'd never seen a room so large. The entire Dark Castle would fit easily in this room. Or probably that was just an illusion. From floor to ceiling, across every wall, hung a tapestry of rich wool and vibrant colors. Not even he could have woven so beautiful and complex a piece. "Magnificent," he breathed, but of course, Atropos didn't need his approval.

"Do what you have come to do, so I can take back my Shears." She folded her arms.

He walked up to the tapestry and touched a single thread with one fingertip. Immediately he felt a thrum of energy in a thread so fine a spider could have used it in her web. He pressed his hand against the fabric and felt it throb like a heartbeat. "It's alive."

"Of course it is. You are."

Oh. He was beginning to catch on. He walked along the tapestry, touching it lightly, relieved to feel it lift and fall beneath his fingers. He admired the artistry of the images as well as the craft of the manufacture. And then he began to read the images.

He couldn't really tell where the story began, but the first panel he studied featured a shaggy-haired peasant in surprisingly fine garb shyly offering a bouquet of wildflowers to a raven-haired maiden. Her hand was outstretched to accept the flowers—and his courtship. He detected a glint of greed in her gray eyes.

Well, he had been, for Milah, a good catch. Her father was a serf. Rumple was a journeyman spinner, soon to complete the piece that would gain him a master's rank and acceptance into the guild. He could give her an almost comfortable living. He passed quickly by this scene and the wedding one that followed, but he paused a long time at Bae's birth. Having missed seeing it in real life, he treasured the image here of a tiny face peeping out from a swaddling blanket.

But he had work to do, so he walked on. He found scene after scene depicting the major events of his life and the people who dominated them. As he went along, it became easier to move quickly; there was less and less he wanted re-examine. At last he found the image of himself and Belle in the Underworld, him touching her elbows lightly and smiling tearfully as his news sank in: her mouth was framing the word _pregnant_. Here he reached for the Shears in his jacket.

He'd given this a lot of thought. There were so many moments in his life where a bad decision could be stopped and people's lives would be improved immeasurably. His initial plan had been to make his cut at the moment when he'd taken the dagger from the Duke's burning castle. Then he would never become the Dark One and hundreds of lives would be saved from his and Regina's actions. But no, Bae would have been dragged off to war.

Then he'd thought he would cut his path at the moment when he'd picked up the sledgehammer. If he hadn't maimed himself, Milah would never have had cause to be ashamed and she would have proudly stayed his wife and Bae's mother. If he had survived the war. What he knew of the battle that followed, the odds would have been against him.

Then he'd thought he would go back to the moment when Maurice summoned him to Avonlea. If, instead of making the deal to end the Ogres War, he'd simply vanished from the face of the earth, never to be heard from again, Belle would have been spared heartbreak—unless it had been from Gaston, assuming she'd managed to escape before the ogres attacked her home.

Then he'd thought he would go back to that lovely panel depicting the pregnancy announcement and with a snip just there he would remove himself from her life and Gideon's. She wouldn't be left a _respected_ widow, but she would be a rich one, and her last memory of him would be a happy one. She would no doubt go on to remarry and give Gideon a loving stepfather.

Except Rumple knew the unfillable hole that an absent father could leave in a boy's heart, even if the boy were better off without his papa. And the Dark One's son, without the Dark One nearby to protect him, was in constant danger.

He walked back to the pregnancy panel and lingered there, the Shears in hand.

"That's where you'll do it, you suppose." Atropos came up behind him.

"As good as any," he said carefully. "She won't have to suffer my interference." He allowed bitterness to fill his voice. "And my mother won't steal him and turn him against us."

"He came to you last night. From the Blacklands."

"Yes."

"As a full-grown man. You and she never got to see him grow up. The first step, the first word, the first day at school, the first kiss. All the moments a parent is entitled to."

"Yes. She did, I suppose—my mother. Or she aged him so she could skip over his childhood completely. I don't know. I don't know how she thinks, and I don't know him at all."

"A brave thing, cutting yourself out of their lives. You know you'll die."

"I've done it before," he shrugged.

"That was a brave thing too." Atropos pointed to a panel farther down the tapestry. It illustrated him holding Malcolm while reaching up to take the dagger from his shadow.

"I would have depicted the moment of the kiss," he said. "A mobster's kiss of death."

"No. A son's kiss of forgiveness. You always did have a surprisingly forgiving heart."

"I loved him at that moment." He hung his head. "And every minute before. Such a fool."

"Would you say the same of Baelfire and Belle? They've loved you every moment."

He refused to answer. Just positioned the point of the Shears against the gold thread that he figured was his.

"Before you do that," a new voice interrupted. The white dove from downstairs streaked into the room and landed on Atropos' shoulder. A talking bird; Rumple had seen stranger things. Atropos swatted at the bird and it hopped off, in mid-air transforming itself to a buxom young woman in a white gown. "Hello, Rumplestiltskin."

"Hello." He frowned. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"Indirectly." Her lush ruby lips shaped a sly smile. "You're the recipient of one of my rarest gifts. Oh, not beauty; that's so common." With a flick of her hand she swept her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "And not lust—though it has its purposes."

He reddened, thinking of Cora.

"True love," she prompted, a bit miffed that he hadn't thought of it himself. "In fact, you've been denying it ever since I gave it to you, and that annoys me. A lot. I almost took it back."

"Why didn't you?" Atropos snorted.

He could identify the newcomer then, and he bowed to show due respect. "Aphrodite. She who shines from the foam."

She brightened. "That's better. But you still have much to atone for. Would you like to know why I didn't take back my gift? Your friend Mr. Dove. He prayed for you. You and Belle and Gideon. It was for Gideon's sake that I decided to intercede."

"Zeus permits this?" Atropos growled. "He has never interfered with our work before."

"Well, not exactly." Aphrodite bit her fingernail prettily. "It's just a teensy-weensy intercession. Not an interference at all. More like—pointing out something that, if he were thinking clearly, Rumplestiltskin would have thought to do himself." Before Atropos could object—or summon help—Aphrodite lay her hands on Rumple's shoulders and walked him down the tapestry. "Here, let's take a stroll. Back to your beginning. Right here." She pointed to the gold thread, thicker than the others, that passed through the entire length of the tapestry. "Give it a little tug. Don't cut it. Just pluck it loose a little."

He looked at her over his shoulder. Her eyes were sea green and her voice a lullaby. He'd met sirens before; the whole lot of them couldn't compete with her for mesmerizing power. "Why?"

"A preview, let's call it. Go on, tug."

He pulled the head of the gold thread loose. All along the tapestry, it twitched and throbbed.

"Aphrodite," Atropos warned.

"Oh, shush. This won't do any permanent damage."

"To the tapestry, no. To him—"

"Let him look. That's all, just a glimpse. He can see the future anyway, so where's the harm?" Again her hands on his shoulders turned him and with a small shove she walked him slowly down the length of the tapestry. Panel by panel, the images shimmered and flickered and changed. The Black Fairy, stealing a newborn from its cradle while its parents slept nearby. Magic law required that she leave something of equal value in the baby's place—usually a fairy baby, a changeling. But this time the Black Fairy left a suckling pig.

This solved a long-held mystery for him. Soon after the Blue Fairy's portal had stolen Bae away, Rumple had traced rumors of a Black Fairy. The two sisters hated each other and either would do anything to undermine the other. He thought to make a deal with the Black Fairy; as a fellow creature of darkness, perhaps they could reach an understanding. Or at least, an alliance by which the Blue Fairy would be destroyed. So he retreated to his library, scouring the books for any reports on the evil sister. He'd learned immediately of her favorite trick, of stealing and exchanging human and fairy babies. After much digging, he tracked down a rumor that she had once given birth of a child of her own, and she'd swapped it to _willing_ human parents in exchange for gold. The human mother had died a few years after—the rumor writer didn't consider her important enough to record her name. But Rumple knew it, because he recognized the husband's name: Malcolm.

He'd grown up thinking his mother was an ale maker named Dodie. Now he knew better. His mother's name was Lanhyddel the Gwyllion, she who rose to usurp the original Black Fairy and who had reigned ever since, undefeatable. Rumple never did learn who his biological father had been; Lanhyddel had cavorted with a great many of the demons who served her. She probably never knew either, probably never cared to learn. She'd unloaded her baby on the same day as his birth, never, as far as he knew, bothered to check in on him to see what had become of him.

Between nature and nurture, Little Rum had gotten screwed.

"Look." Aphrodite walked him down a little farther.

The next panel showed Malcolm swamping out a tavern. "He never makes it to Neverland," Atropos related. "Dies at age thirty. The clap."

"Neverland never happened. Good. Those lost boys were safe in their homes," Rumple sneered.

The next panel depicted a woman falling backwards into jagged rocks. "Cora," Atropos explained. "She tried to climb down from Xavier's tower." She directed his attention farther down the tapestry. "See? No Regina. No Evil Queen. No curse. Eva reigned peacefully for fifty years. Snow took the throne at age sixty."

Aphrodite leaned in to whisper in Rumple's ear. "She married a knight from Camelot. A childless union—his heart belonged to an ice cutter named Claude. But he was a good king. It's just that Snow never. . . thawed."

"No Emma," Rumple calculated. "No Emma, no Henry."

"Not that there would've been, anyway, because there was no Bae."

"No Bae," he said softly. "Spared the humiliation of a coward father. Spared abandonment. Spared death."

"Spared life," Aphrodite emphasized. "Emma's love, Henry's pride. Your devotion."

She directed him to another panel, which illustrated a funeral carriage drawn by four black horses. In the background, a castle burned. "That's Belle. Or what was left of her after the ogres—you know. They didn't find enough of Gaston or Maurice to bury."

Rumple thrust his fist against his mouth to keep from crying out.

"Gone at age twenty. It was a nice funeral, though. But right after, Avonlea was evacuated. Uninhabitable, after the ogres got done with it."

He had to stand and stare a long time at that panel.

"All right then." He collected his wits. "You've made your point. But it wasn't my intention to remove myself completely." He walked back to the pregnancy panel. "Here. I'll cut myself out of their lives here." He lightly touched the woolen Belle. "Bae will still have died. Zelena will still be running around loose. But Belle can go home, give birth in peace, and someday remarry. And then Gideon will never become—what his birthright and my mother made of him."

"But there's that contract you made with Frederick, that at this point was owned by Hades. I can tell you from personal experience, my friend, Hades is a stickler for agreements. Especially when it involves keeping innocent souls trapped in his kingdom."

"But Belle's not part of the contract—"

"No, but you know her. She's not going to leave her baby with Hades." Aphrodite showed him another panel depicting Belle in chains at the foot of Hades' throne. The King of the Underworld is bouncing a baby on his knee and feeding it from a whiskey flask.

"Oh my gods."

"Precisely." Aphrodite moved him along. "So here we have the foster father and child eighteen years on. Papa Hades—yes, Gideon calls him that—is giving him final instructions before sending him uptown."

"Where is he going?"

"Notice the lovely tailored suit Gideon's wearing? He inherited your flair, don't you think? He's going to Harvard. After that, it's a one-way ticket to law school, then a governorship, then the Presidency. He'll be the first magic wielding President of the United States. Oh, and the last. See?" The final panel shows a nuclear explosion. "Hades will be so proud. But then, that's what he's been groomed for."

Rumple's mouth went dry. "And Belle?"

"Tried to escape in the first year. Into the drink with her."

"The River of Lost Souls."

"Isn't there—"

"Another way the story could go? What do you think?"

"If I. . . " He stammered. "What if I cut a little farther along, after we got back to Storybrooke?"

Atropos interjected, "Oh, you mean, before Jeckyll attacked Belle?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. Then." He grasped at a straw of hope.

Atropos touched the tapestry and the illustrations changed. "Let's find out."

In the next panel, a smiling Belle was sitting up in a hospital bed as a crowd of admirers peered down at the infant in her arms. "Yes," Rumple sighed in relief. "There. That's where I need to cut."

"What would that do, I wonder," Aphrodite speculates. She finds the next panel. It shows a small brown-haired boy holding a dagger. In the background, a fairy in black hovers.

"But how—"

"Belle never tells him who you were—or who your mother is. But the Black Fairy will not be denied, especially when there's a chance to gain a new acolyte."

"Acolyte?"

"Storybrooke is quite supportive, keeping him in the dark about you, but like most kids, he's curious. On tenth birthday his grandma Black finds him and brings him a present." Aphrodite nods at the picture.

"My dagger. But if I'm gone, the Darkness—"

Aphrodite finishes, "Is just drifting loose, in search of a host. Grandma's going to see that it gets one. She's ambitious, you see: imagine what a Black Fairy could accomplish if she controlled all the Dark Ones that ever existed. Including the most powerful one ever."

"Me. She'd make Gideon the Dark One and my powers would transfer to him."

"You wanted him to escape the fate of being raised by you," Atropos pointed out. "And he did, but he he's still your son."

He slumped to the gold floor, his head in his hands, struggling to gain control of his emotions so he could formulate a new plan. He tossed the Shears aside, but Atropos caught them and returned them to her belt. Something in his jacket pocket poked him and he removed it.

Aphrodite folded her arms. "What are you planning, Rumplestiltskin?"

She provided a convenient target for his frustration-though, later, he would realize how foolish it was to lash out at a being who could turn him into a cockroach with a single thought. "I never shared my plans with my wife and my son. Why would I share them with a self-centered goddess? Take me back to Storybrooke. Please."

"I think not." There was an edge of nervousness in her voice. Did she have an inkling as to his intentions? Did she-a goddess— _care_?

He repocketed his dagger and pushed himself to his feet. With a jagged bow, he bade Atropos farewell. "Thank you, goddess, for your hospitality." Ignoring Aphrodite, he walked out of the room set aside to track his life.


	4. The Cuckoo

Chapter 4: The Cuckoo

 _"I can't run no more_  
 _With that lawless crowd_  
 _While the killers in high places_  
 _Say their prayers out loud"_

* * *

 **LAST NIGHT**

"Hello, Mother. Hello, Father."

Rumple's arm instinctively slipped around Belle's waist and he pulled her closer. She flinched, but whether that was a reaction to his touch or to the hooded figure's appearance in the pawnshop, he wasn't sure. Nor was he sure whether his intention was to protect her or comfort her: although they had both seen their son in her dream, to see him in the flesh, so close they could see his five o'clock shadow even in the dim lamplight, and just two days after he'd been taken away from them, was heart-breaking as well as shocking. All those years, stolen from the three of them, all the hugs and kisses, all the skinned knees and mud tracks, all the gold-star homework pages and the flat bicycle tires and the baseball-cracked windows and the juice spills and the "I hate you" slammed doors and the "Mommy, read me a story" and the "Daddy, there's a monster under my bed" (which, Rumple had no doubt, would be true). Wherever she took him, did Lanhyddel get to live any of those moments? Or did she pass the baby off onto someone else to rear? Or did she speed up his aging, bypassing all those moments altogether?

Why did she take him, anyway? Was she trying to compensate for the years of mothering she missed out on when she gave up her own baby? Rumple snorted at the thought. More likely, she took the baby to hurt Rumple in the worst way possible, but why? What had he ever done to her?

After centuries of facing down kings, knights, demons, witches and ex-wives, Rumple had learned how to shake off shock quickly and plaster on an unruffled façade. As Belle took a hesitant step forward—he could feel it in her muscles: she intended and needed to hug this stranger, though malice radiated from his very stance—he clutched her a little more tightly. Correctly, she interpreted the gesture as a warning and wisely, she stepped back, probably thinking Rumple had detected some sort of magic at work—a glamor spell, a controlled heart—on this person claiming to be their son. But oh how she longed to lunge forward into Gideon's arms.

As did Rumple. As did Rumple. Instead he drew in a chilly breath. "Identify yourself, please."

The stranger tilted his head but his eyes didn't widen; he must have expected this, but he pretended to be insulted. "Father, don't you know me? Mother, surely something in you recognizes your own child."

"There have been. . . many magical frauds coming through this town," Belle answered lowly. "Many impersonations. If you are mine, forgive me."

"Hmm, I suppose you'd feel better if I gave some sort of sign, some information from our past that only you and I would have shared." His lips curled. "Oh, yes, you and I don't have a shared past, do we, Mother? So I suppose we'll have to depend upon Dad's methods." He plucked a strand of hair from his head and held it out to Rumple with a cold smile. "Here, Dad. Test it. You'll find the DNA matches."

Rumple smelled a trick, but he conjured a vial of green fluid and into it he dropped the proffered hair. Then he contributed one from his own head and watched with bated breath as the fluid turned red. He could hear Belle at his elbow sighing "Gideon" in relief, but the match only made him more suspicious—and nervous. He'd hoped this stranger would prove a fraud, so he could toss him out the door and be done.

"A name?" The young man's eyes widened and his sneer flickered before taking its place back on his face. "You gave me a name? We assumed you hadn't. Most people don't bother to name a child they intend to abandon."

"You think we abandoned you?" This alarmed Belle more than anything else so far. "No, dear one, we _never_ —we wanted you, both of us, with all our hearts. You were loved from the moment we first learned you existed, and we would have upended the earth to find you."

"Hard to believe that the most powerful sorcerer in history"—Gideon leaned in toward Rumple as he barked the latter phrase—"couldn't find one lost little boy after twenty-eight years of trying. Or is it that you never really tried, Papa? Or maybe you're just not the mage you claim to be. Which is it?"

"Twenty-eight years!" Belle gasped.

"No, no," Rumple held up his hands in a stop gesture. "You must understand, where she took you, time moves more slowly here. It may have been twenty-eight years for you, but for us—"

"'May have been'? Are you calling me a liar, Father?" He grunted. "It takes one to know one, I suppose, but as you can see"—he spread his hands wide—"you sent me away a newborn, and here I am, an adult."

"We didn't send you—we didn't—It wasn't like that," Belle pleaded. "For your own good. For your protection, I sent you with the Blue Fairy. Just for a little while, until I could figure out how to keep you safe from—" she clamped her lips shut.

"From what, Mother? Or whom?"

She shook her head, staring at the floor.

"Tell me, then, how it was for my 'protection' that you took me out into the woods and left me inside a hollowed out oak tree?"

"No!" She clutched at Gideon's sleeve. "No! I gave you to Blue!"

"Seems lying is a family trait." Gideon folded his arms tight against his chest. "Good thing I was raised by someone who cared enough to tell me the truth." Gideon came a little closer, but walking around the edge of the showroom space. Almost circling them, Rumple realized; he'd often used the movement himself to intimidate at the same time he'd kept the distance. "My grandmother, I mean. I don't call her that; she's hardly grandmotherly looking. . . ageless. . . and she prefers I call her by her name. Do you happen to know it, Father?" He inched a fraction of an inch closer so his sneer wouldn't be missed. "Her name? I don't suppose you bothered."

"What lies did she tell you?" Rumple felt Belle grab his hand and give it a squeeze, as she used to, as a silent signal for him to calm down. He accepted her counsel. He couldn't afford to let this stranger rattle him.

Rattle. The thought of the word sent a stab of regret through him. What should he have done, to convince Belle to let him back into her life? Which of his many mistakes had been the last one she could forgive? Rattle. Teething ring. Bottles. Talcum powder. Cribs.

"You're sidestepping the question, _dearie_." Gideon let the sarcastic endearment sink in. "Yes, I know that little verbal habit of yours. You'd be surprised what I know about you two, and how. But let's not waste time when you have so little of it left." He glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall, pulling Rumple's gaze with him.

Belle brought them back to ground. "What do you mean?"

"Just what it sounds." Gideon lifted a shoulder casually and his heavy brown robe rippled. "One day. Well, one day and three hours, to be precise. Lanhyddel likes to do big things at midnight. She's kind of a traditionalist when it comes to magic. But make no mistake, she's a genius at thinking outside the box."

"What happens at midnight tomorrow?" Rumple's voice didn't shake, though his hand in Belle's did.

"We—Grandmother and I—make your prophesy come true, Father." Gideon raised his index finger and pitched his voice into a mad giggle. "'The final battle begins.'" He walked a few more steps. Behind them now, he forced them to keep him in their line of sight. "We know all sorts of things, Father. Or would you prefer 'Dad'?"

"What happens at midnight, son?" Belle pressed.

Gideon rolled his eyes. "And I thought you were an imaginative one. All right, let me spell it out." He ticked the items off on his fingers. "Number one: I kill the savior. That clears the path for Lanhyddel's arrival. Number two: I kill Regina. It will be the work of moment, with her better half already dispatched. Meanwhile, my grandmother pays a visit to the convent and—you'll enjoy this, Father; that's how we can be sure you'll stay out of the way. Number three: my grandmother demolishes each and every—what do you call them? 'Gnats'? As well as their hive, in case they have any magical implements tucked away there. Even if Mother begs and wrings her hands and cries, as we're sure she will, because she's so very soft-hearted, you won't interfere. It's just too delicious to watch those bugs get squashed. And then, the big finale of the night, number four: I'm killing you. With your dagger. And as the powers of all the Dark Ones fill me, my grandmother will knock off any other magic-user or plain old human who tries to act heroic. We're sure there won't be many. Most of the town will be busy fleeing. What's the result of the current curse on the town line, Father? There've been so many, I forget." He leaned forward to peer into Belle's horrified face, but he didn't touch her. "Which leaves you, Mumsy. We think you'll be malleable by then, so we'll give you the option of a quick death or working for us. We understand you have experience in castle cleaning; ours is filthy." He turned a triumphant smile onto his father. "Get the hint, dearie? We own the Dark Castle. Just to make you aware of how powerful my grandmother is, she created a portal between her realm—where she is Queen—and Misthaven, and through it she brought the Dark Castle, in its entirety, with not so much as a cracked window or loose door knocker. Brought it all, as my playpen and my schoolhouse: your laboratories. Your powders and potions and charms. Your journals. Thanks for keeping such detailed notes, by the way. Grandmother taught me sorcery out of them."

He paused just a second for breath and locked his gaze on Rumple, who felt a cold shudder shoot up his spine. Journals— lab notes—then Gideon must know about Rumple's greatest achievements, the True Love potion and the Storybrooke Curse. And if he knew about those, he must know then why they had been created.

Gideon was pressuring his mother now. "Your library. Your bed chambers." He cocked an eyebrow. "His bed chambers, on the opposite wing. We found that. . .interesting. A respecter of old virtues, Father? Or did you simply fear True Love's Kiss? Lanhyddel and I have speculated on that."

Beneath his hand, Rumple could feel Belle shake as anger heated her cheeks. But she clenched her fists and said nothing; she realized Gideon was attempting to goad them. For a second, Rumple thought he'd like to take their son over his knee for a sound spanking.

Staring at his six-foot-tall two-day-year-old, the only comfort he could offer himself was his fall-back promise of getting even with the villain who'd robbed him, Belle and Gideon of those small but life-changing enjoyments.

"Another thing we wondered about." Gideon tapped his chin. "The other bedchambers were completely empty, except one in the east wing, overlooking an orchard. A spacious room with a big bed and a closet filled with rich clothing styled for a young man, and sporting equipment, and art supplies. Yet it's well known the Dark Castle was closed to visitors." He scratched his head. "So we never did figure that one out."

He cast a hasty glance at Rumple, too quick to be read, but Rumple thought he saw something human in it—warmth, sympathy, humor? The emotion vanished too quickly for Rumple to be certain it had existed at all. But if they had read his journals, then they knew about Bae, which falsified Gideon's claim of ignorance. But why would Gideon pretend not to know he had a half-brother?

Gideon tossed his hand carelessly in the air—with a flair for the dramatic that Rumple assumed had to be genetic, because how else would the boy know his father's mannerisms? "Well, perhaps I'll take the time tomorrow night to ask you to solve these little mysteries—before I kill you."

"And why would you want to do that, dearie?" Rumple managed to fake a sneer.

"Oh, it's nothing personal, Dad. I hardly know you, after all. Come to think of it, I don't know you in the slightest. Your journals really weren't that revealing. I just want your powers. Yours and every Dark One's currently residing in your shriveled black heart." He paused to reconsider. "I take it back: it is personal. Chew on that tonight as you. . . . do whatever you do to prepare for battle. Cast your protection spells or whatever. By the way, what will you be doing, Mumsy? Under the circumstances, I'm curious: will you pray for him, or will you go tavern-hopping with the girls? You and your pool cue and your little blue dress, _Lacey_."

Belle began to sputter, though she couldn't deny the implied accusation. Rumple held her shoulder back to calm her. "So you've been spying on us, apparently for quite some time. Gathering battle intelligence, or were you curious about us?"

"There are quite a few of us orphans in the Blacklands. It's common for us to be curious. I use the term 'orphan' loosely. What we abandoned ones call ourselves is 'grass orphans.' Isn't that clever, Mumsy? You're a logophile. I thought you'd appreciate it."

Rumple had to gain the upper hand quickly, before either he or Belle broke down. "Does Lanhyddel know you're here?" He couldn't bring himself to say _your grandmother_ ; the Black Fairy didn't deserve that title. Nor could he bring himself to say _son_ or even _Gideon_ , because he saw nothing familiar in this man.

"She sent me ahead, to prepare the way. Reconnaissance, for the war to come." His words were hard and cruel, but there was something in his eyes, almost a pleading in the way he looked at each of them, that made Rumple think he was asking to been seen through.

Or maybe that was just transference on Rumple's part.

"Does she know you're _here_?" He pressed, hoping the question would give Gideon an opening through which a hint could be slipped through. "With us."

A muscle in the young man's cheek twitched. "Weren't you listening, Dad? I just finished telling you how powerful Lanhyddel is. Do you think there's anything she doesn't know? Any secrets I could keep from her—or would want to?"

 _Yes_. Rumple allowed the smallest smile to steal across his face, so Gideon could see it. One more tiny push, to be sure that what he thought he was seeing was real. "What does she call you? What name did she give you?"

Was that pain in the boy's eyes? "Vharcan. My name is Vharcan d' Ra'ton." He bared his teeth, another gesture he'd somehow copied from his father. "In case your Fairy is rusty, it means 'the orphan's revenge.'"

"You can't want that. I named you for a hero," Belle insisted, "Gideon the strong and brave."

"Too bad you weren't hero enough to keep me, eh, Mumsy?" He reached into his chest and with a twist of his wrist that mocked the Imp's exaggerated gestures, he hauled out his heart to show them. "There's your strong and brave hero." He held it close to Belle's face, though she turned her head away to avoid seeing it; then he thrust it under Rumple's nose. "See what you made of me?"

The heart was small, underdeveloped, and black as soot. After Rumple had a long look, Gideon poked at the organ, flipping it over. "Look closely, Dad. I want you to remember this."

On the underside glowed a red spot, no bigger than a penny. But there nonetheless, and Rumple let a grin flash across his face before erasing it. "I will remember. . . son."

Slapping the heart back into his chest, Gideon stepped back, a bit closer to the door, but Belle was reluctant to let him leave.

"Wait, don't go. Let's sit down and talk. We have a hotplate in the back; I can make tea. . . ." But her sentence trailed off into the ether as Gideon chuckled.

"Tea, Mumsy? I cross time and space to come here. I tell you I'm going to destroy this town, kill my father, become the Dark One—and you offer me tea?" He shook his head, still chuckling. "You have been warned. Sharpen your swords, pray to your gods, say goodbye to your friends, get drunk off your ass. I don't care, just as long as you spread the word. When I return tomorrow night, I want be able to smell the fear." He waved his hand as if drawing in a wine bouquet to his nose. "Go out now and talk me up. Oh, and in the street you'll find a birdcage containing a cobra. Best bring it inside; that's your Evil Queen." He wrinkled his nose. "I already took her powers. They were _delicious_." He came forward a step, causing Belle to step back to avoid him. Rumple forced himself to hold still, his hands quietly folded in front. But when Gideon placed his hands on Belle's elbows, the magic jumped to Rumple's fingers.

"Don't worry, Dad. I said I'd let Mumsy live and I meant it. This is a goodnight kiss. That's what parents and kids do in this realm, isn't it?" He bent to press his lips against Belle's forehead, just the slightest pressure before pulling back. "Goodnight, Mum." He shifted to his left but kept his hands down. "Now you, Dad? A goodnight kiss for your little boy? Or maybe a mobster's kiss, like yours for my grandfather."

Rumple wanted to shove him away at the same time he longed to embrace him. This hurt as hard as the horrific threats that had flown out of Gideon's mouth. In the last moment, as Gideon bent down to him, he retracted his magic and raised his face, accepting the kiss.

But as he pressed his lips lightly to Rumple's rough cheek, Gideon whispered in his ear, "Help me." His face was stony as he drew back. "Goodnight." Rumple didn't catch him summoning his magic, but in a blink, Gideon—Vharcan d' Ra'ton—vanished.

Stunned, Rumple stood frozen, touching his cheek. Belle was quicker to recover. She bent and retrieved a gray feather that had appeared where Gideon had stood. "A bird's feather. What does it mean?"

"A cuckoo." Rumple didn't have to look at it to know. "It symbolizes a new fate."

"Was this feather meant he trying to warn us of our doom or ask for help? How did he know who we were, where to find us? I know he saw us in my dream, but how did he know who I was, when he entered my dream? And why, when he came into my dream, did he call himself Morpheus? There is only one Morpheus, isn't there? And why does he look so much older and harder now than he did in my dreams?" When Rumple didn't answer, she seized his sleeve. "Rumple? What are we going to do? How do we stop him?"

Rumple smiled strangely, shocking her. "Belle, his heart. It's not completely hers. He wants us to save him."

* * *

Her lips parted to form a question, but he flicked his hand and transported them both to the pink house, to the living room, where her books still lay. Where she would feel comfortable and safe.

He should have asked her first, but his mind was elsewhere, and apparently, so was hers. She flopped on the sofa, shoving her lap blanket aside.

"I'm sorry. . . my bad manners," he mumbled. "Would you like some tea, or brandy—"

A little calmer, she urged, "You must have a plan. You always have a plan." Then her head jerked up. "Oh, Rumple, you're not thinking of—!"

"No, no, no," he broke in, leaning forward urgently. "I swear to you, Belle, I will do anything to save him. I love him as much as I love you and. . . ."

"Bae." She finished for him. A thought flashed into her eyes. "We never really mourned for him, did we? If we had—"

"If we'd talked out our pain—" he agreed. "But I failed. Three hundred years, Belle, no one to talk to—Milah, she thought a man should be strong. The first time I tried to talk to her about my worries was the last time. The shame she felt, that her husband was weak. . . . Then it was just me and Bae, and I had to pretend everything would be all right. . . then there was nobody. . . ."

"We both failed." She allowed tears to slide down her cheeks. "After all you'd gone through, with Hook, then Cora, then Zelena—I should have realized, no one could come out of all that unscathed. I should have seen you were in pain, but I failed you. We failed each other. And our son bears the burden of our failure." She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Rumple. I know you love us. I remember everything you sacrificed for Bae, and I know you'd do no less for Gideon. I don't know what's become of me lately, that I'm so suspicious and . . . paranoid."

"I haven't given you much cause to believe in me, I'm afraid."

"We have to be upfront with each other now. No matter how we feel about each other, no matter what either of us is afraid of, we have no choice but to trust each other and tell the truth. Rumple, you have a plan. I'll support you in it, if I can. Tell me what you're thinking." She scooted forward on the couch, her eyes bright with both tears and hope.

"The Shears." With a flick of his wrist, he produced them. "They're the answer."

Belle's eyes darted back and forth as she sought an excuse. "Even if you could cut him away from his fate, It's too late now, isn't it? He's here, full grown."

"Not to us. I don't think so. Not in our time. He's violated the laws of time to come here. In our time, he's a two-day-old infant, secreted away in a land we can't find. But the fates know where he is."

Nearly frantic, she jumped up and knelt at his feet, grasping his hands. "You've never used this kind of magic before. You don't know what you're tinkering with. If you cut the thread of his fate, you may kill him."

"It's not his thread I intend to cut."

"Then whose? The Black Fairy's?"

"I know so little about her, and nothing about what she did to him. If I . . .removed her from the equation, I would be endangering Gideon."

"Then who?"

"Belle, you have to trust me. You have to believe that I'm doing the right thing, for his sake. " He pleaded with his eyes; his words seemed so flimsy.

Her voice elevated. " _Who_ , Rumple? Whose fate are you going to interrupt?"

"Don't try to stop me, Belle. There's no time to try anything less." He rose, holding onto her hands until he couldn't any more.

"No!" She scrambled awkwardly to her feet. "Rumple, don't do this! Let me—let me go for help." She followed him to the dining room. "Blue. Or Regina and Emma. Let me get them. We'll find another way! There's always another way." She reached for her phone, but with a sad shake of his head, he transmuted it into a cup of tea. Huffing, she set the tea on the dining table and rushed into the kitchen, to the bar upon which they kept a bowl for their car keys. He transmuted them too, to another cup of tea.

"Rumple! Be reasonable!" Not waiting for his answer, she ran out onto the porch and started down the stairs. She had to move carefully: she'd just today gone back to wearing high heels.

"Belle, please. . . ." On the porch, he called out to her, but now she was darting across the lawn. "You're not going looking for Emma, are you? Belle, the sheriff's station is more than a mile away!" She didn't slow down; she was in the street now, running to a house whose lights were on. The owner of her favorite shop, Purbeck Shoes, lived there.

It gave him an idea. He snapped his fingers and her high heels vanished.

"You think that'll stop me?" She shouted back at him, hopping on one foot.

"No," he replied, his voice full of regret. "But this will. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Forgive me." A toss of his hand and she was transported to the town line. She'd have five miles to walk before she came to the first building, the city dump. Until then, there would be no traffic with which to catch a ride.

He knew from experience how bumpy that road was, and how dark. He waved his hand again, giving her a flashlight and a sweater, and putting a pair of sneakers on her feet. Then he transported himself to the bedroom that used to be theirs, to dress for the journey to come.


	5. The Wryneck

Chapter 5: The Wryneck

 _"Yeah the widowhood_  
 _Of every government_  
 _Signs for all to see"_

* * *

 **AN UNKNOWN NUMBER OF YEARS AGO**

Flora and Fauna did everything together, even shaking their heads and clicking their tongues in pity together as they knelt and examined their brand-new ward. They inspected under his fingernails and behind his ears, and then they lifted his holey shirt, making him blush furiously, and inspected his sunken chest and his protruding ribs. They clicked their tongues again.

"He needs—" Flora began, and Fauna finished, "feeding. A lot of feeding. And a new suit of clothes—"

"And a haircut and a bath."

Rumple stepped back as soon as the sisters released him. "Please, ma'ams, who are you? Are you friends of my papa?"

"Seems polite enough, considering."

"Yes, considering. I am Flora."

"And I am Fauna, Rumplestiltskin. That's how you may address us."

"For now. Perhaps later, you may like us well enough to call us 'Auntie.'"

"Yes, I like that: 'Auntie.' Someday."

"Because we are your father's aunts."

"But for now, sister, I was thinking—"

"Yes, I put some pottage on while you give him a bath."

"And then we'll stitch together a shirt for him."

"Shopping tomorrow. I can trade some herbs for a boy's size boots and pants. Do you like markets, Rumplestiltskin?" One of the sisters—he'd lost track who—put a kettle on to boil while the other dragged a tub from the kitchen. "I suppose your father took you sometimes—"

"Hard for a vendor to turn away a half-starved child," the other sister muttered. "Probably had him begging while Malcolm picked their pockets."

"No, he—" but Rumple clamped his mouth shut. As much as he longed to defend his father's reputation, the accusations were too true.

"When was the last time you had a bath, Rumplestiltskin?"

"Well, I—" he wasn't sure if a dunk in a town square fountain counted.

"And a hot meal. When did he feed you last, Rumplestiltskin?"

The boy squirmed under the inquisition as well as the use of his full name. Malcolm seldom called him anything, unless a sheriff was present. Or if Malcolm was drunk; then it was "you little snot" and "you mangy mongrel."

"Do you like meat pies, Rumplestiltskin? Tomorrow I'll bake a meat pie."

Fauna had the tub filled with water now and was digging up a sliver of ash soap and a scrub brush from a drawer. "Climb in the tub, Rumplestiltskin. Do you need help? Is the water too cold? I can add more hot."

"It's fine." Really, he didn't know; he hadn't bathed in a tub in months. He remembered his manners. "Thank you."

"Fine boy." Fauna grinned toothlessly at her sister.

"Fine boy," Flora agreed. Then she frowned and pointed at him, or more specifically, his back. He hung his head, wondering what other flaw they'd found in him. "Look, sister. His shoulders."

"Yes!" But Fauna's tone was excited, not disappointed, and her hands were gentle as she turned him around in the tub and ran a bony finger down his shoulder blades. "Look at that!"

It tickled, but he contained his laughter. What was going on back there? Was he sick and just hadn't realized it, then? He allowed the sisters to touch him as they stared. He longed to ask questions but whenever he got too nosey, Malcolm would cuff him, so he'd learned to keep quiet. He'd learn more by listening, anyway.

"Rumplestiltskin." Fauna turned him gently to face her. He stared at the water sloshing at his ankles, so she lifted his chin. "Boy, did you know about the wings?"

"Huh?"

"He doesn't know about the wings." Fauna reported, and Flora picked up the questioning. "You have wings. Stunted. Barely more than lumps." She poked at his shoulder blade. "There."

"Only two. Shouldn't there be four?" Flora seemed worried.

Fauna nodded. "And at his age—"

"Unfolding."

"Yes. Not strong enough to fly with, but opened."

"Yes."

"His mother," Flora frowned, trying to recall. "Nothing extraordinary."

"No. Nor Malcolm, not the smallest sign."

Flora snorted. "He would have exploited it, if he had any magic at all."

"What's the explanation, then, sister?" Fauna dipped the brush in water, then soaped it.

"I hardly know." Flora returned to the cookfire, bringing one of the cranes over the flames. "Whatever it is, he's not likely to ever grow those wings."

"If they aren't open by now."

Fauna pressed on Rumplestiltskin's head. "Sit down in the water, boy." She began to scrub his arm. "A mystery, sister."

"Life usually is."

* * *

 **TWO DAYS AGO**

As the god of dreams clomped into the dining hall and plopped down across from the goddess of love, he huffed and snorted and thrashed about on his bench until, unable to ignore him any longer, Aphrodite pushed aside her ambrosia salad and closed her Jackie Collins paperback, and with a slight scowl (she never fully frowned: it might result in wrinkles) she rested her chin in her hand and asked what was the matter. After all, what did he, who had the safest and easiest job in Zeus' kingdom, have to complain about?

At that invitation, ignoring her dig at his occupation, Morpheus tugged his black-and-white coat smooth (for Aphrodite was an open critic of appearances, and she often complained about the horns on his head as being "brutish" and "uncouth" and his long gray hair as "straggly"). Normally he wouldn't speak to her, but today he was highly agitated and the other gods had finished their meals and returned to work long ago, so he plunged in, hoping she would be in a tolerant, if not generous, mood. "Some punk kid is impersonating me." He leaned forward to emphasize the importance of his point. "A _human_."

"A human?! Impersonating—how?" Now Aphrodite was truly interested, but only slightly so (raised eyebrows could also cause wrinkles). Besides, Morph was prone to exaggeration. He probably meant that some human had fashioned a mask and was running around a village making promises of happy dreams to any young lady who would bed him in payment. It had happened before. Rather frequently, in fact.

"He's been entering dreams and talking to people. Introducing himself as me."

"Entering dreams?" She shrugged her silken shoulders. "You must be stretching the truth again, Morph. No human—"

"Well, he's a sorcerer. And one-quarter fairy. And his father is the Dark One. And his grandmother, the Black Fairy, trained—"

"Black Fairy?" Aphrodite forgot about her beauty secrets and allowed her eyebrows to shoot to her hairline. "Dark One? My titans, Morph, are you serious? And are you sure? Because if you are—how many people has he terrorized so far?"

Morpheus looked a little embarrassed. "Well, one. His mother."

"He's made no move against others?"

"Well, no. But he's infiltrated her dreams three times now."

"What's he been telling her?"

"That the Dark One is out to get him. Use the Shears of Destiny on him to cut him away from his destiny. He's pressing her to break up her marriage and keep him away from his evil father."

"Oh, that old gag. Those Shears went missing a couple of months ago. Does Atropos know the Dark One has them?"

"I haven't told her yet. I mean, I just found out about this kid." Morpheus huffed again as he thrust his arms into a fold across his scrawny chest (Aphrodite preferred a beefier build. Even her husband, whose limp and whose homely face would otherwise turn her away, was more attractive than this puny demon-god. Hephaestus' broad chest and generously muscled arms, so honed after long hours at the anvil, could always warm her blood).

"The Dark One's child. Hmm. Interesting. And trained by the Black Fairy. Well, so far, it seems he's only messing around in his own business, so I doubt if Zeus will want to step in, but he ought to be informed anyway. You know he hates us withholding information." She picked thoughtfully at a slice of orange. "Especially if it involves magic. And this kid could be dangerous, if he has enough power to enter dreams."

"And taking lessons from Lanhyddel the Gwyllion. . . . She wouldn't be teaching him anything nice."

"Better go to Zeus right away. Just in case."

As he reluctantly rose, the scrawny demon demonstrated a rare flash of anger. "I don't care if it is just his own mother he's pestering. If he doesn't stop impersonating me, I'm going to enter _his_ dreams and give him what-for."

Aphrodite shrugged again. She'd always thought Morpheus' powers pretty useless, except for delivering messages from the important gods, like herself, to important humans, like kings and sorcerers. It was kind of interesting, though, that this kid—and no doubt the Black Fairy acting through him, because only Lanhyddel was powerful enough and clever enough to enter a dream—was picking on his human mother instead of attacking the Dark One's dreams. But then, the Black Fairy usually did take the easy way out, using the powerless to hurt the powerful. What she'd done with babies all these eons. . . .

"Come with me?" Morph begged.

"Don't be a baby. If you're too scared to go to Zeus, go through Hera. Marriage is her domain. She'll be interested in the Black Fairy's attempt to break up a marriage made in Olympus. Go on now."

Morpheus shuddered. He'd tell Hera and she'd tell Zeus and Zeus would blame him—he always blamed one of the gods when the humans screwed up—and Morph would be lucky to get out of this encounter with singed wings from one of Zeus' lightning bolts.

As he trudged off, his wings dragging, Aphrodite dropped her fork. This Dark One, who up till now had led, from the gods' point of view, a relatively quiet life (oh, they all knew about the Land Without Magic curse; that had been quite an achievement; but since it affected only a couple of hundred people, Zeus had left it alone), was suddenly at the root of some attention-getting trouble. Still, nothing worth worrying about, yet.

Nevertheless, Aphrodite decided it was time for a little chat with Agriope. The goddess of magic certainly would be keeping close tabs on the Dark One and the Black Fairy, but she might not have heard about this kid's escapades, nor would she likely know of Mr. Dove's prayers to the goddess of love. A bug in the old magicwoman's ears (for Agriope had six of them, since she had three complete bodies, attached at the shoulders and hips) would be wise.

* * *

As the soft and perfumed goddess of love glided away, the three-bodied queen of magic lowered herself tiredly to her oddly shaped workbench. She busied her six hands with various potions—simple ones, because her minds were troubled and distracted, but she needed something to relax her as she mulled over this latest news. Maybe she ought to take up spinning. . . .

As the leading mage in all the realms, the Dark One had always received her closest attentions. She'd even had to step in a few times when Dark Ones became too ambitious and if left unattended would destroy all the gods had created. She didn't like to—Zeus had a strict "no intervention" policy, although he himself had broken it many times. And this current Dark One hadn't needed much correction. He'd spent all of his three centuries in pursuit of a lost child. (Agriope had never had a child of her own, so she didn't really understand the intensity of Rumplestiltskin's emotions, nor the long dedication of his pursuit, but she admired what he'd accomplished along the way. He'd brought science and history to his study of magic and as a consequence, had taken magic farther than anyone, other than Merlin).

But he'd been acting unlike his usual, circumspect self, these past two years, so Agriope had monitored his actions more closely. His rising temper, she understood: if she'd had to put up with the likes of Zelena, she would be irritable too. And she certainly understood his wish to preserve his magic while separating himself from the dagger, but she'd had to step in on that one when he'd figured out how. The dagger was vital to capping off the ambitions and greed of Dark Ones; that was why she'd had to invent it. Agriope had had to break him of that pursuit in the hardest way possible, using his beloved against him; it was a dirty game and she hated playing it, but he was just too stubborn to quit unless something drastic stopped him.

His sulkiness, she understood too; he'd had some hard knocks in his long life, some unfair, undeserved crap that others had dumped upon him, beginning with his mother dumping him just hours after giving birth to him. The Fates had really dealt him a bad hand in both his biological parents and the adoptive ones. If they'd given him some compensation—a rich family to raise him, a legal system to protect him, size and strength to fight back against his bullies, or even some caring friends—his scales might have balanced, but then, he probably never would have become the Dark One, and after Mesuline the Massacrer, Gorgon the Cannibal, and Zoso the Fool, humankind really did need a relatively more level-headed Dark One for a change, one that had been a human and could remember what guilt, shame, sympathy and affection felt like. During most of his reign as king of the mages, Agriope could relax a little and concentrate on her own research. But now he was hurting deeply and floundering with the loss of all of his compasses. His second son turning against him—being turned against him, by Rumple's own mother—had to be the last straw.

Had to. It was time for the gods to intervene.

Agriope set aside her potions and picked up the stack of prayers in her "in" box. She didn't get many these days, largely forgotten by humankind, except for a handful of wannabes who worshiped her in hopes of being granted magic in return. Even the fairies had drifted away, their leader, though a strict rule follower, more inclined to pray to the modern God. And the current Dark One, though he respected Agriope and followed her laws to the letter, never prayed to anyone. Maybe that was the problem: he'd learned from babyhood not to ask; no one cared enough to bother to help him. The few helpers the gods had sent him had all been scared off. . . or had died.

Only one seemed to understand that death of the body didn't mean death of the soul. Agriope gathered her prayers, transcribed from speech into writing by her faithful servant, so that they could be perused at her leisure. Every one of this week's prayers had intrigued Agriope, because they'd come from Elysium, where the souls of dead heroes rested in paradise. And every one of them had been sent up by the hero Baelfire, firstborn of Rumplestiltskin. Baelfire hadn't been resting. He'd been watching his father gnaw his heart out. And because one of her duties was to serve those who had been murdered, Agriope was bound to respond.

Each prayer was a little different as Baelfire changed his appeals, in hopes of attracting a response from Agriope, but the root of each plea was the same: Rumplestiltskin is worth saving. Help him. Or bring me out of Elysium so I can.

Agriope clutched Baelfire's prayers to her chests, rose slowly, composing her thoughts as she did, and then she summoned her messenger. "Ask Zeus if I may confer with him. Soon," she instructed, and she watched as the wryneck flapped its wings and vanished.

* * *

 **TWO YEARS AFTER RUMPLE LOST BAE**

He wasn't used to asking for help. Not before he acquired his power, because people would only laugh or sneer at him, and certainly not after. But now he had to admit, perhaps he needed it and perhaps, he could receive it. He had a great deal to offer in trade now.

The second most powerful magical being in all the realms, according to legend—not that he'd ever seen her in action; she didn't waste her time on peasants—was the Blue Fairy. He'd gone to her, hat in hand—well, as much as the Dark One could be humble; really, it started as a demand and degenerated into a threat—but she'd slammed that door shut immediately. She seemed delighted, in fact, to have separated father and son, as if his grief and fear would make him tamer. The sanctimonious gnat had spent too little time with humans to predict their behavior, and at heart, weakness though it might be, Rumplestiltskin was still human.

Only years later would he come to wonder if fatherhood might have actually made him stronger. Certainly, more daring.

But the third most powerful magical being in all the realms, it was said, was the Black Fairy, and she was a creature of evil, through and through. So he traded spells and potions for information, and when he ran out of sources, he turned to his books, hundreds and hundreds of books that he had to depend upon his magic to organize and search through. It was during those years of book research that he learned so much, but he also grew frustrated and longed for a helper to take on this tedious burden for him. So few in the realms could read, mostly only the nobles, and so as he sauntered out into the villages to make deals, he watched for one who could serve him in this fashion, someone intelligent, someone persistent, someone educated and unafraid of either himself or the subject matter. And certainly someone who could keep a secret.

Someone, therefore, who would probably never leave the Dark Castle.

It was during those years that he learned of the eventual birth of the child Belle, daughter of Lord Maurice. An odd child who would prefer books over balls. An introverted child who would sometimes wander off into corners of her castle to read in peace, whether there were other children to play with or not. A brave child who would argue with generals. Rumple's time with her would come; he saw it predicted in the flames of his cookfire. He could wait. Twenty years, thirty, he could wait.

He ended up waiting nearly two centuries for Belle. She was worth the wait.

In his readings he found plenty of stories about Lanhyddel, some probably fiction, some exaggerated nonfiction. He supposed the details didn't matter all that much, as long as he could figure out what she wanted, what he could trade to her. If she couldn't open a portal to the Land Without Magic herself, perhaps her powers combined with his could force one open. He made his notes.

Then the day came that he realized the answer was obvious: the Black Fairy wanted something he'd thoroughly enjoy assisting her with. She wanted revenge on those who had ostracized her. He'd never gone that path before; as a human he'd had no power to fight back and as a sorcerer he'd been too busy searching for Bae. The more he thought about it, though, the sweeter the thought. He'd gladly help Lanhyddel take the Reul Ghorm down, and then, after she assumed the fairy throne, she'd owe him that portal.

They were of a like mind, he and Lanhyddel. A common cause makes strangers quick allies. Maybe he just needed a lure. That was how he justified it, as he transported himself into a sleeping cottage and snatched the newborn from its cradle. The parents didn't want it anyway; they had too many to feed. He'd borrow the baby and find it a new home in the morning.

He stood for hours in an empty meadow, the baby in his arms, for fear that the fairy would sweep it up if he left it in its basket, and then he'd never get to talk to her. He called her name, over and over. He tickled the baby to make it cry, in the expectation that Lanhyddel would hear. She didn't show. At dawn he left the baby with a barren couple and trudged home to his books. Night after night he stole babies—there were plenty of them, unwanted and unattended—and day after day he studied, but the Black Fairy never came.

But he did find a solution. He'd traded for a trunk belonging to a dead witch, and within, he found a scroll that an attached note identified as the Black Fairy's summoning incantation. He only needed someone who could read Fairy to translate the incantation. That would be Belle, who at age nine would speak five languages. He could learn the language himself, and he did try for a brief time, but his mouth could not shape itself around those horrible sounds, nor would Nimue cease her complaining about his attempts. "Keep this up and you'll become one of those sickening goody-goodies," she griped. "Keep this up and those wings on your back will grow and you'll fly off to Fairy Meadow."

Wings.

He'd forgotten them. Blocked out the memory of them, most likely.

They started to itch. As he read, the itching interrupted his studies. Gave him another reason to hate fairies—somehow, he was one, in part. He conjured anti-itch creams and applied them magically, since he couldn't reach his back. The creams gave him some relief, but the knowledge still pestered him: he was part fairy.

Then one morning as he nearly dozed over yet another tome, he made the discovery that explained those stunted wings, explained why he hated fairies so deeply, and explained why the Black Fairy wouldn't come without the summons. " _It is believed that the Reul Ghorm expelled Lanhyddel from Fairydom forever because she violated the sacred law prohibiting their kind from lying with a human, the evidence of which could not be denied, though Lanhyddel skulked off alone to bear her baby; and when the babe was born, she traded it to a human man named Malcolm in exchange for gold. For it is said that his wife, cursed by the gods for barren, longed to sickness for a baby, and Malcolm thought the child, when of a teachable age, could learn to ply the trade of a pickpocket, or if not, could be placed out as a servant. It is thought that Lanhyddel failed to inform Malcolm of the rarity he had acquired, a Halfling that could, upon maturity, control the forces of magic, perhaps those of Light that his mother possessed but now denied herself, having turned to Darkness in her grief and anger. What became of the babe is unknown, but surely his Talents were never discovered, or he would be known to us._

" _Lanhyddel herself, it is said, went mad as she entered the Darkness, the particular form of her sickness taking the form of baby stealing. The infants so kidnapped from their beds were perhaps substitutes for her own lost son, but when the madness fell temporarily from her eyes and she could see the object of her thievery was not her own child, she would steal another and leave the rejected babe in its place, hence the legend of the Changlings was born._

" _As to the legends of the Great Sorcerer Merlin. . . ."_

Rumplestiltskin slammed the book shut and sent it flying into the cookfire. His stunted wings began to itch and in fury, he attempted to claw at his back, first with his fingers, then with his magic. Abandoned not once, not twice, but four times in his life, by those with whom the gods had entrusted his care, as well as by the family he had chosen for himself. Cursed, he was, far worse than the curse Zoso had tricked onto him. Cursed to be forever unloved.

In his rage and self-hatred, he tore off his shirt and summoned his dagger and enchanted it to cut his own flesh. He screamed in agony as it tore deep into his shoulders and slashed down one side of his back, then the other. And when the dagger's work was done, he sent it back to its hiding place, and he walked to the highest turret in the Dark Castle and he howled his pain. Whether it was physical or emotional, he didn't try to figure out, but he let his body bleed.

He could never, ever forgive her for abandoning him. He could never, ever forgive himself, for being abandoned.

* * *

 **PRESENT TIME**

Struggling to catch his breath and quiet his pounding heart, Rumplestiltskin held his head high as he sailed from the room that contained his Life Tapestry. Only centuries of practice gave him the strength to project an image of confidence and certainty that he didn't feel, but he knew he was being watched, and if he didn't appear to know what he was doing, those damned goddesses would take it upon themselves to decide for him. Under his breath, he muttered, "None of your business" to Nimue, who was pestering him with questions laced with growing alarm.

"It certainly is my business. Mine and all the other Dark souls you kidnapped from our rightful rest and are holding prisoner in this raggedy body—"

"Shut up. I saved you from destruction and you know it."

"All the more reason you owe us an explanation. What the hell are you doing, Rumplestiltskin?"

He kept walking, refusing to answer.

"What are you planning?" Her voice rose as he closed the door of his Tapestry Room behind him, shutting himself off from the goddesses' view. In the long corridor, he started one way, then changed course, thoroughly lost without Atropos to guide him. "What are you going to do?"

Nimue knew, of course; she could read his thoughts—and worse, his emotions. Her questions were meant to make him stop and think. He did stop, but only because he realized that for what he intended to do, he didn't need to leave this mansion that he couldn't find his way around. It was the work of a moment and could be finished before the goddesses had figured it out. He leaned against the wall and reached into his jacket.

"No!""Stop!" Nimue and Aphrodite shouted simultaneously, but only the goddess could enforce her command. Even before she and Atropos had fully materialized in the corridor, the goddess flicked her wrist angrily at the Dark One. Locked in a freeze more powerful than squid ink, he could only glare at her. He couldn't deny what he'd started to do: the evidence was right there, its sharp tip pressed into his belly.

Another flick of her hand and the dagger went flying; a third application of magic stopped the bleeding and sealed his wound. As Atropos stood literally stone-faced behind her, Aphrodite clicked her tongue in annoyance. "I don't like to do this. I hardly ever involve myself with humans any more, not directly, I mean. Zeus will have my head for it." She glanced over her shoulder for confirmation from Atropos, but the Fate gave no reaction. Turning back to Rumple, she allowed herself to sympathize. "I know what you've been going through. I know it's not fair. And it's certainly not helping. We seem to have given you all this responsibility and none of the support you need to carry it all, haven't we? And I know we allowed you to die before, but that had a necessary outcome. This time, we need something different. Something only you can deliver, and I promise you, Rumplestiltskin, I'll give you the help you need, even if no one else will." She threw a sneer at Atropos.

"Zeus will not—" the Fate began, but Aphrodite interrupted, "Oh, blast what Zeus wants!" Then she glanced overhead, listening for thunder, and she softened her tone. "He'll allow it when he realizes the consequences. Besides, I have a way with men." She raised her arm, ready to cast a transportation spell, but the Fate moved a half-step forward.

"Wait. Agriope must be included. And your petition will be more forceful if Hera supports it." Was that a flicker of life in the Fate's black eyes?

Aphrodite relaxed. "Yes. Protocol. And let's invite Morpheus and Hephaestus to the party. And Athena—she's more involved with humans than any of us."

"And Apollo. Zeus respects him." Atropos lifted her chin defiantly. "And me."

Aphrodite gasped. "You? You want to stand before Zeus with us? But the Moirai never—"

"The Black Fairy dares challenge us." Atropos' funereal tone took on fire. "She will be stopped."

"I see," Aphrodite grinned. "This time it's personal, huh?"


	6. The Peacock

Chapter 6: The Peacock

 _"But they've summoned, they've summoned up_  
 _A thundercloud_  
 _And they're going to hear from me"_

* * *

 **PRESENT TIME**

The burly blacksmith was the first to answer Aphrodite's summons (he always responded to his wife's calls immediately) and after quickly surmising that she wore her business face, he kissed her cheek modestly and sat down at the dining table, awaiting the arrival of the other "guests."

They filed in one by one, many of them still in work attire, as if making the point that they'd had to take time out from their busy day to attend this meeting (the implication being "keep it short"). The order in which they appeared provided a not-so-subtle clue as to their status, particularly in relation to Aphrodite: after Hephaestus came Morpheus, then Eros (invited because he was Aphrodite's son), then Hestia (invited because, as goddess of the hearth, she was pissed at the Black Fairy's attempts to break up the Gold family), all of them ten minutes or more early. Right on the dot came Demeter (invited because she was the goddess of fertility and thus had her back up about the Evil Queen's having robbed Belle of her right to a natural pregnancy) and Artemis (as protector of young children, she'd got the Black Fairy in her sights for her kidnapping and corrupting Gideon. Known for her flash temper, she could be expected to pave the way for the sweeter Aphrodite). Five minutes late, Athena sailed in (Zeus' favorite, and the voice of logic that would balance out Artemis' and Aphrodite's arguments. She also had a weakness for humans, especially craftsmen), followed by Ares (whom nobody trusted, but Aphrodite kind of had a thing for him). Athena shot Ares a cutting look: how dare he come in after her? Twelve minutes late was Apollo, who was so good at everything that the other gods resented him, but one glance at his handsome visage and they forgot their envy. Aphrodite had deliberated about inviting him: beyond their common interest in magic, he couldn't possibly relate to the short, graying Rumplestiltskin; and as the god of truth, well, he looked down his aquiline nose at a husband who'd lied more than once to his wife. But to invite the others and not Apollo would have been a faux pas that would be hard to live down.

Fifteen minutes late was the Queen herself, the imposing Hera. So powerful that she made even Zeus nervous, no major decisions could be made in Olympus without her, and that was why Aphrodite had to include her, though the goddess of love dreaded what Hera might have to say about Rumplestiltskin's conduct as a husband. Having been cheated on repeatedly by her own husband, Hera would certainly have no forgiveness for the Dark One's lies, manipulation and especially, his dalliance with the Evil Queen. (If it came down to that, Aphrodite planned to defend Rumple by pointing out that Belle, not Rumple, had called an end to the marriage and had been the first to seek affection elsewhere. It probably wouldn't change Hera's mind; almost nothing did.) If she could be won over, however, so could Zeus.

The way Hera was studying the Fates gave Aphrodite hope. If the Fates said "Save Rumplestiltskin" ( _not_ "Save the Dark One"; though they all understood the need to maintain a dark-light balance in the human world, they also all knew that Dark Ones come and go, and while Rumplestiltskin might be the least objectionable of the lot, he was replaceable. All Dark Ones were.)

So they seated themselves—again, their choice of seats indicating their rank—and a small nod from Apollo signaled his approval for the meeting to begin (pushing Aphrodite's buttons: what gave him the right to decide, over her, when the meeting should begin?). All heads turned toward her expectantly, but all eyebrows rose when Atropos and her sisters Lachesis and Clotho walked in and positioned themselves behind Aphrodite and Agriope. Most of the gods had to whisper among themselves to identify these unfamiliar old hags who kept to themselves, so as to avoid being tainted by the gods' emotions and ambitions. As for the gods themselves, though sometimes tempted to try to influence the Moirai on behalf of favorite humans, they feared Zeus enough to obey his strict command to steer clear (and they feared the Fates even more).

"Mighties," Aphrodite began (they all liked that term, so Aphrodite used it, but sparingly, so as not to wear out its force). "Thank you for answering my call. My allies," she tilted her head in the Fates' direction, "and I seek your support in petitioning Zeus on behalf of the human Rumplestiltskin." She blinked and a bewildered Rumple appeared beside her. As he took in the audience of deities staring back at him, fully aware that even the lowest of them had more power in their pinkie than he had in both hands, he swallowed hard, then forced himself to smooth his features, raise his chin and stare back. But as he scanned their eyes, he learned that not all of them were judging him, and that warmed him somewhat. In respect for those who looked at him with interest, curiosity, and in a few cases, understanding and compassion, he bowed.

He had no idea what was going on.

"You brought him here, didn't you?" Hera interrupted Aphrodite's carefully prepared speech to address Atropos. "He manipulated you into it."

There was no point in attempting to sugar-coat it, not that Atropos could, anyway. The machinations of humans and gods were beyond the Moirai's ken. "He made me a deal: the return of my Shears in exchange for access to his Life Tapestry. It was his intention to cut himself out of his family's lives. He failed to find a place to make the cut that would not cause irreparable harm to those he loves."

"As a long-lived and influential Dark One," Apollo suggested, showing off his knowledge a little, "he no doubt affected a great many lives, from kings to shepherds, and through them, altered the future of humanity."

Ares snorted. "'Altered the future,' my granny's bloomers! He brought magic to the land without. Two guesses as to what will happen when the rest of his world finds out." As he licked his lips, he gave his own guess away, and no one doubted it: humans would slaughter each other to get their hands on Storybrooke, once they learned its secret.

"To be correct, magic existed in small pockets of the human world long before Rumplestiltskin arrived there, and the isolation spell his curse cast over the town has, for the most part, protected it from the rest of the world's view," Agriope interjected.

"If we're going to start playing badminton with the good and the bad this man has done, we'll be here all night." Athena rolled her eyes. "Get to the point, Aphrodite. What are you after and what part do the Moirai play in it?"

Aphrodite cast her a grateful glance. "We'll defer to Zeus' better judgement, naturally, but we're asking him to help Rumple set things right. Tell them, Rumple, what the Black Fairy did."

His tongue heavy in his mouth, Rumple stared at the marble floor. He wasn't sure he could do what Aphrodite expected him to: even though these beings had the power to help him, why the hell would they? He was the Dark One. That alone doomed him. He was also Rumplestiltskin, Halfling, despised by his neighbors, rejected by two sets of parents and two wives and two sons. He'd accepted his lot in life even before he could lace up his own boots. So why bother? Why let them laugh at him? Just take his punishment and be done.

But the goddess of love touched his back lightly and urged quietly, "For Belle, who loves you yet, and for Gideon, who yearns to love you."

The goddess of magic appeared at his other side and reminded him, "And for Bae, who prays for you."

Aphrodite grinned across her defendant at the queen of magic. "Yeah? So does the guy who works for Rumple." She smiled into Rumple's widened eyes. "Yeah. Mr. Dove's been praying for you."

That was enough. Rumple raised his chin again, but not defiantly this time; he lifted his head to make eye contact, one at a time, with the gods and goddesses. "I ask your help." Those four words freed him of the weight that had pressed upon his chest for a lifetime. "I ask for your help," he repeated, and the words came more easily. In fact, he liked them. "My mother is the Black Fairy, Lanhyddel the Gwyllion. Mere days ago—in our time—she kidnapped my son and took him to the Blacklands. In the passing of time there, which is greatly speeded up, compared to ours, she raised him, setting him against me and my wife. She made him a powerful sorcerer. She also made him her slave. The reason for her robbing us of our child, barely an hour old, was not love for him or concern for his future with us—with me. The reason she took him was to make him an instrument of destruction. He has been conditioned to kill: first our savior, then me. Once he has become the new Dark One, she will wield him as her own unique sword to wage war against the fairies, and then the other users of magic in our world, and finally, all of humanity. As Zeus reigns here, she intends to reign there."

He sighed, a long, shuddering sound. "I won't pretend I care what happens to the people of Storybrooke, or anywhere else, for that matter. But I do care when overweening mages tamper with the laws of magic and the balance of power. More than anything else, though, I care about my son and his mother. I'll do anything to ensure their safety and their happiness."

"Even if it means killing himself," Aphrodite clarified. "Which he tried to do, out in the hallway, about an hour ago. He had the notion that if he killed himself, he could save his son from becoming the next Dark One. We stopped him, obviously."

"The Darkness would be out of reach of anyone who craved it. My mother is just the last in a long line," Rumple said bitterly.

"There is a reason for Darkness in the world. There is a reason for it to be contained in a Dark One," Agriope pointed out. "However generous his offer, Rumplestiltskin sees only the misery that the Darkness causes the person who takes on its curse. He doesn't see, as we do, the necessity for Darkness in human life."

"You'll never convince me that the suffering the Darkness causes is a good thing," Rumple growled. "I don't give a damn if I served some greater purpose. You screwed with me from Day One, and then you screwed with Belle and Baelfire and Gideon."

"You are right," Atropos said quietly. "We used you. In what you would say is our long game."

"One life, to save thousands," said her sister Clotho. "In your terms, it was a good deal."

"We regret nothing," Lachesis said tonelessly.

But Rumple wasn't through. "Nothing you say will ever sell me on the rightness of making three good people miserable."

Aphrodite hadn't forgotten the crowd. "He got a raw deal. I don't think any of us can debate that. It's too late to smooth things out for him, but come on, people, there's a young mom who was robbed of her baby" (she threw a meaningful look at Demeter). "A baby's childhood was stolen from him. The right to his mother's love" (she looked at Artemis). "The right to his father's love" (she directed this to Apollo). "Lanhyddel broke up a marriage" (to Hestia—well, maybe that was stretching the truth). "She might as well have taken the Shears herself and cut Gideon from his fate, because that's how it worked out. Whatever life the Moirai had planned for him, he didn't get it. He's the Black Fairy's minion now" (she threw this out for Athena). "And if we don't do something, we've got worse than the atom bomb and the black plague combined. It won't be war she wages; it will be a massacre" (Ares winced).

Rumple looked Hera in the eye, let her see his sincerity. "I ask your help, for my family, not for me. Do what you have to to me, as long as my family is all right."

"You'd—oh, I don't know, let Hermes drag you to the Underworld?" Ares prompted. "If it meant Belle and Gideon would have a nice, normal life?"

"Been there, done that," Aphrodite waved her hand dismissively. "Clearly, you didn't read the bio, Airhead."

"Hmmph."

"I saw what he did for Storybrooke, against Peter Pan," Athena said. "Brave thing."

"I saw what he did for Baelfire. Literally moved heaven and earth to find him," the normally shy Hestia spoke with fire. "I take him at his word."

"Yeah, he's a liar, but I think he knows better than to lie to the gods," Apollo shrugged. A smugness in his smile told the rest of the story: not even the Dark One could get away with lying to me.

"I don't care about Rumplestiltskin." Artemis echoed Rumple's declaration. "But the boy—he deserves to know his mother."

"And vice versa," Demeter added. "She deserved to raise her baby. Belle would have made a fine mother."

"They've done nothing to deserve this," Rumple whispered. "Please." His eyes moved slowly from one face to another, ending with Hera. "Please. Whatever your reason. Whatever it takes. Help my son."

Hera stared back at him. He'd never felt so powerless, not even against Hordor. He felt her hot gaze burn through him to the shriveled lump of coal he had for a heart. He felt her read in his brain his entire catalog of crimes, and he knew there wasn't a damn thing he could do to soften her opinion of him. So Rumple just stood there, hands folded, and let her burn him. She could stick him on a spit and crank him over a campfire, if she wanted, as long as she saved Gideon.

Maybe, in the end, it was nothing she saw in him that made up her mind, because she merely observed, "The fairy Nova prays to me on your behalf." She rose slowly, and her subordinates rose too, silently, waiting for her word. "We will see my husband," she decided, and though Rumple saw no gesture from the grand lady, a peacock suddenly appeared at her feet. "Inform His Majesty that we come." The elegant bird spread its tail, and Rumple could swear the eyes decorating its feathers took measure of all the dining room's occupants before the peacock closed its tail again and vanished.

Hera gathered her long skirts and swished from the room, fully aware that everyone else would follow.

Nova. Rumple wasn't sure he could pick her out from a line-up of nuns, and yet she prayed for him. A muscle in his cheek twitched involuntarily. Then Aphrodite threw an arm around his shoulders and steered him toward the hall. "Come on, we don't want to be late."

Agriope came to his other side. "What Zeus did for Hook, it's only fair, he do for you."


	7. The Eagle

Chapter 7: The Eagle

 _"Forget your perfect offering_

 _There is a crack, a crack in everything_

 _That's how the light gets in"_

* * *

The party of gods and goddesses moved determinedly through Olympus' corridors, ordered in their march as they had been in their seating arrangement, by rank, with the queen walking alone at the head. They were silent, but for the heels of their sandals clicking against the marble floors and their robes swishing between their legs. By nature a loquacious bunch, they held their tongues in the hallways outside the king's throne room, because Zeus demanded and got respect from all who drew near him. And he earned it, in his wisdom, his courage and his strength. He had his flaws, yet he'd proven himself time and again worthy of his position.

A rapid beating sound overhead made Rumple stumble as he looked up, his hands ready to protect his head from attack. Whatever had caused the disturbance came and went so rapidly he couldn't see it. The gods around him paid the disturber no notice, so he hurriedly composed himself and asked no questions. In the midst of all this power and immortality, all he had left was his pride.

The grand brass-and-mahogany doors swung outward on their own accord as the petition party approached. Rumple blinked against the bright light bouncing off the walls; it was a clever effect, temporarily disarming any who approached the throne, giving the king a moment to size his visitors up before they could act.

When his eyesight stabilized, he saw that the king was standing on the dais, rather than sitting on the throne, and that too was a clever effect, showing the visitors just how imposing this deity was: more muscular than Hephaestus, taller than Ares, and in deeply lined face, white, curling beard and sky-blue eyes, almost Apollo's rival in handsomeness. His white robes, hemmed with silver, rippled, suggesting intense, reined-in energy, though the god himself stood stock still. On his shoulder perched a golden eagle, its wings closing; Rumple realized then that it was this creature that had flown past them in the corridor.

Standing to the king's right were two familiar figures, whose presence caused Rumple's stomach to drop to his boots: Merlin and his Apprentice. Surely Rumple was doomed now, if they'd come all the way from—well, wherever death had taken them: most likely Elysium, where they'd probably been sitting around drinking tea with all the other heroes of history. Then he took small comfort in reminding himself that his wish was to drag the all Dark Ones now inhabiting his body into the Underworld, where Gideon couldn't touch them and vice versa. What more could Zeus and Merlin do to him than what he would have done to himself to accomplish that purpose?

As Zeus raised his chin to stare down at them, the gods and goddesses bent their heads in tribute. Hastily Rumple did the same.

"I have considered your request." The walls amplified the king's baritone voice.

Rumple's head jerked up. None of the petitioners had yet spoken: the king must have spies everywhere, or very good ears.

Hera came closer and after a small nod from her husband, joined him on the dais. She positioned herself sideways so that she could see both the king and the petitioners with a slight shift of her head. Her position signaled that she considered herself an intermediary between the two, loyal to neither. She was her own woman, always had been, as Rumple had heard; perhaps it was her independent nature that had given her the strength to bear the insults of her husband's infidelities.

Rumple's thumb rubbed against his wedding ring.

"Have you reached a decision, then, husband?" Hera dared to stare into the king's face.

"I have." There would be no time, then, for a last plea from any of them, or for Rumple to make his case. He supposed none of that was necessary, but just the same, he would have preferred to speak for himself. He could be grandly eloquent, but he would not have shown off his oratory flair here; he would have spoken plainly. He would have asked to be spared Aphrodite's meddling, so that he could complete his plan and save his son from the Darkness. He would have asked to be left alone to die in peace.

"Rumplestiltskin, come forward."

Rumple separated himself from the crowd. Standing at the foot of the dais, he folded his hands in front of him to keep them from forming fists. He gritted his teeth to keep his tongue still. But the tips of his ears reddened, an uncontrollable sign of his anger. These gods would exert their wishes over him, regardless of how he felt, regardless of what was best for Gideon and Belle.

Still, he couldn't go down without a bit of a fight, weak as it was. "W-w-wait. . . please. Don't I get to say anything before you pass judgment on me?"

Zeus appeared surprised. "I have heard all that has been said, by you and by your advocates. Nothing that occurs within these walls escapes my notice."

"Yeah, but—" Rumple clenched his hands together—whether in defense or in supplication, he wasn't sure. "We humans give the condemned a chance to make a last statement. Can't you—I know you think you know everything about me, and maybe you do, but—can't a man at least—state his case before you drop the noose around his neck?"

Now both of Zeus' hairy eyebrows shot up. "Noose? You assume to know my mind, Rumplestiltskin. That's presumptuous and dangerous—and dim-witted. For a man with vision, you've shown surprisingly little imagination."

Rumple could feel heads turn and eyes bore through him, but none of his advocates made a sound: their king was speaking. He tightened his jaw. For three centuries now, he'd been the most powerful mage in the room. Since becoming the Dark One, the times he'd lost, it had been because he'd been too hasty, too trusting, letting people get close to him whom he should've given the boot to. Fully cognizant of the fact that any one of these beings surrounding him could do a snail job on him, he had no choice but to rein in his temper. In his Mr. Gold voice, he said, "My apologies, Your Majesty; I meant no insult. I would. . . appreciate enlightenment."

Now one of Zeus' eyebrows lowered while the other one remained raised. "No, you wouldn't, but I'll provide it anyway. I am fully aware of everything that has been said and done in Olympus since its creation, and you can be sure that when a Moira brings a human into my domain, I pay attention. Quite a singular event. And when that human is the Dark One, bearing in him the spirits and powers of all the other Dark Ones that have ever existed, I pay even more attention." He smiled briefly, raised his fingers, and when a morsel appeared between them, he offered the tidbit to the eagle on his shoulder. Rumple could have sworn the bird winked at its master.

The eagle swallowed its treat, then his sharp eyes joined Zeus' in piercing Rumple. "And when all of the Moirai and a significant majority of my family—including my wife," Zeus' voice took on a rueful tone as he glanced at a frowning Hera, "come to me to ask my assistance in straightening out this Dark One's problems, my curiosity is piqued. But even more intriguing are the prayers I've been receiving for several weeks now, from Elysium, from men who, logic would dictate, would pray for justice—and just to be clear, Rumplestiltskin, justice for you would mean an immediate and irrevocable return to the Underworld."

This was falling into Rumple's plans; he should be pleased, but he was too busy questioning his own ears: did that "but" mean that Merlin and the Apprentice had been praying _for_ him? Wide-eyed, he gaped at Merlin, who responded with a slight nod.

"Instead, they asked for me to assist you, just as the Moirai have, just as my family has. Not for yourself." Zeus held up a heavy hand in a stop gesture. "Nor for your wife and child. I don't intervene in small matters."

Humbled, Rumple glanced at Merlin. "Why, then, did you make your request?"

"Lanhyddel must be stopped," Merlin said gravely.

"My intention, precisely." Rumple sucked in a breath. "Let me finish my task—"

"Again, your imagination is in short supply," Zeus grunted. He squared his shoulders, a sign that a proclamation was about to be issued, and he pointed to the platform beneath his feet. "Rumplestiltskin, step up. And Agriope too, since the magic ones fall under your oversight."

Silently and ominously, the goddess of magic separated herself from her peers and glided to the stage. With one graceful step she was elevated to her king's side, and she gave a slight nod to Merlin and his sidekick, who bowed slightly to her. Then the three mages and their superior and his piercing-eyed familiar all glared at Rumple.

With a hushed curse, he obeyed, positioning himself on the stage at a distance he hoped would appear respectful.

"Rumplestiltskin, what you have done is known to me, all of it, the good, the bad, the bad that was done for good reason, the good that was done for selfish intent."

Rumple stared at the big man's sandals. Gold heels, they had, solid gold. Rumple had spent so much of his life handling gold that he could recognize it by scent alone. His lips quivered under the weight of unvoiced curse words. He was able to restrain them only because he reminded himself that if they sent him to hell, that was what he'd planned all along.

"But this is not the day fated for your judgment. What you came here for is irrelevant to me, because it's not your time. You have work yet to do in your earthly realm."

Rumple's head snapped up. He could detect no clue in the voice or face as to what the god felt, but of course, that was to be expected: this deity had been passing judgment on gods and mortals alike eons before Merlin took his first sip from the Chalice of Magic.

"Work that you alone are uniquely qualified for, that your life has been preparing you for. Your mother intends to use your son to steal the magic of all the Dark Ones, and with it, to steal all the magic in your world. After she becomes queen of your realm, she intends to challenge mine. She wants nothing less than to rule Olympus."

Rumple had thought very little could shock him any more. He was wrong. "A god!"

Zeus corrected, "The monarch of gods. You must thwart her plans."

The voices of every Dark One inside him clamored; for a change, all were in complete agreement that the Black Fairy must be stopped immediately by whatever means required. A universal dread of what Lanhyddel would do to their playground, the world of men-and to them, if she got her way. With Nimue leading the protest, Rumple dared to speak up. "Then let me do as I came here to do. Let me go back to the Underworld. With me out of reach, my son can't become the Dark One. He'll be useless to her. She'll release him."

Zeus interrupted, "No, she'll continue to use him to gain whatever she can. You must stop her as the Fates intended. Your life has been leading to this purpose."

Panicked, Rumple jumped to conclusions. "You can't—no, I won't kill my son!"

"Gideon is not fated to die at your hand," Agriope said quietly. "He has a larger function, one in the service of magic."

Merlin explained, "He is meant to be the one of whom I spoke, the one who will rise above the siren call of magic. He will possess both light and dark magic, and control both with ease. If he's allowed to follow his fate. His mother must raise him, to give him her gift of goodness. And _you_ must raise him, to give him your gift of darkness."

"My son, the Dark Savior." Rumple's mouth fell open. "Gideon. . . ."

"If you and his mother teach him. But only under those circumstances."

"Me?" Rumple licked his lips in deep thought. "But it's too late. He's grown—she raised him, made him her minion—"

"She tampered with time," Zeus scowled. "For that your mother will be punished."

Nimue whispered a word of hope: if tampering with time is a punishable act, then surely Zelena too would receive her just deserts.

Zeus continued, "And for what she would have done to you and your world and to me and mine, she will be judged and held accountable. But that can happen only if you resume your life as the Moirai have planned it."

Agriope added, "We can fix this. We can, as you would say, wind the clock back. To a day at which you had a choice and made the wrong one."

"Any day of my life," Rumple murmured before raising his eyes to her. "You intend to give me a chance to get it right."

"You'll know what that is," she assured him. "You always have known the right thing. That's why you were given Flora and Fauna as guardians, so they could teach you. You just haven't listened to your better self."

Zeus raised his voice to indicate he was making a proclamation and would brook no further discussion. "Go back, Rumplestiltskin, and fix your life. Character is built choice by choice. Build a character within yourself that will make you and your family impenetrable to Lanhyddel."

Ignoring the Dark Ones' calls for bloodlust against the Black Fairy, Rumple focused on another, fainter voice buried deep within his memory, the gentle voice of one who truly loved him and wanted from him only his happiness, which, they both knew, could be earned only by doing the right thing. Save her too, if you can, the voice of Flora urged; and her sister amended, But if you can't, forgive her and teach your son to do the same.

He raised hopeful eyes to Zeus. "What about Lan-my mother? Can her life 'be fixed'?"

Zeus' tone was cold. "That is not for you to know." Then it melted a little. "But that you asked is a good sign."

Rumple bowed his head, bent under the twin weights of guilt and fear. "I was wrong to take what I knew didn't belong to me." He glanced at Atropos, his shame his apology to her. "I was wrong-in so many other ways. I accept my place in the world, as the Moirai planned it for me, and I thank you," he smiled his gratitude at Aphrodite, "for the gifts of love you gave me, and I promise to cherish them from now on."

The goddess of love flew at him, her arms open wide, and swept him up in a tight hug. "That's what I like to hear! And if you ever feel like you're flagging again, send up a signal, huh? I'll be around." In the blink of an eye she transformed herself into a dove, and after winking at him, she transformed back to her own soft and lovely self. "And don't forget you got friends down there. Handpicked by us to beat off those nasty old dark voices-yes, I mean you, Nimue. Now shut up." She kissed Rumple's cheek. "Now go get 'em, tiger." She wiggled her fingers and his dagger appeared in his hand.

Zeus coughed, embarrassed at his daughter's undignified display. "Yes, go, Rumplestiltskin. Your son needs you." The great god snapped his fingers.

As wind whistled in his ears, the world vanished before Rumple's eyes.


	8. The Phoenix

Chapter 8: The Phoenix

 _"Ring the bells that still can ring_  
 _Forget your perfect offering_  
 _There is a crack, a crack in everything_  
 _That's how the light gets in"_

* * *

"You failed."

Heads snapped around as Regina, triumphant in her victories over Zelena and herself, smirked down upon her prone and now powerless sister. Behind them, the electric flames of Zelena's grand time–traveling spell sputtered and died out, leaving behind the stench of rotten eggs and burnt leather. As Zelena's magic died, her spells upon her human captives broke and the last of the flying monkeys transformed back into their true selves. The heroes shook off the shock of this unforeseen reversal of fortunes and rushed in to reclaim injured friends and family.

Rumple too struggled against the shock of sudden and complete freedom, after a year of total enslavement to the Wicked Bitch. He drew in a deep breath, released it; another. Then he took a quick assessment of his faculties: his magic was as strained as his nerves, his body was malnourished and dehydrated and covered in lacerations and scars that his tattered and stinking Armani suit hid from everyone but himself and the witch who had given him these wounds. The heroes would never know what she'd done to him; he was too proud and too fearful to let them see his weakness.

As soon as his trembling legs could support the little weight he had left, he took a step forward in the direction of the dagger's call. He had to have it: his life and Belle's depended upon it. And someone else's. . . he couldn't quite remember. . . but someone he loved as deeply as he loved Belle and Bae, though he couldn't bring a face or name to memory. Someone who needed him desperately.

"You're not going anywhere," Regina was still gloating over the horror-stricken Wicked Bitch.

Rumple managed another step. He couldn't let them hear the anxiety, grief, shame and fragmented fear he was feeling. They might be heroes but they remained his enemies and they would use his weakness to control him just as the Bitch had. "I beg to differ," he said coolly, approaching the sisters, and with the shreds of magic he was able to pull together, he dragged the Bitch toward him. He would stand over her as Regina had, smug, and take his revenge, squeezing the life from the Bitch. It wouldn't be enough—nothing he could do to her would ever balance the scales—but he had to dispose of her immediately before she had time to regroup. "I'm going to make you pay for everything you've done to me and my family."

"What are you waiting for?" Zelena shrieked. "Just do it!"

He tightened his magic grip on her throat, forcing the air from her lungs. "With—." Suddenly white-hot pain shot through his head and he gasped. In the split second before Regina knelt to grab up his dagger, the barn and all its occupants vanished. Blinded with pain, he could see nothing, but he heard a voice whisper urgently in his ears, "Help me, Father." He heard himself answer without hesitation, "Yes." The blindness suddenly released him and all the pain, emotional as well as physical, that he'd labored under this past year drained from him. He felt energized, renewed, made new. "Yes," he heard himself say again. "My son." As his vision cleared, he could make out Regina, startled and confused, standing before him with his dagger clutched in her fingers. At his feet, her sister drew in a deep, free breath and glared up at the two of them. Behind him, Emma puzzled, "Gold?"

His shoulders relaxed in the rags of his Armani jacket. His body unwound from its lifelong defensive posture. He felt no fear, no fury, no worry. There was no room for any of that in his recovering heart. There was only room for overwhelming love. His mouth falling open in amazement, he blinked down upon his tormentor, then across to the new dagger holder. Regina could now command him, just as her sister and her mother before her had, but he couldn't manage to worry about that. All he wanted was to go home.

He dropped his hands to his sides. "They need me," he cocked his head, hoping Regina would understand.

"What. . . ?" Her fingers loosened around his dagger and its magic loosened around his body. "Who, Rumple?"

"I have work to do." He turned, but glanced back at Zelena. "Not this." He started forward, drawing alongside Emma and David. "You'll make sure the court gives her what she deserves?"

"Of course," Emma said. David clutched his newborn son to his chest, reminding Rumple that more than one son had suffered under Zelena's hand. "Damn right we will," he growled.

"We'll have two guards on her, round the clock," Emma assured him.

"Fairy dust," Rumple prompted. "Ask Blue. Coat the floor and the ceiling of the jail cell with fairy dust." He shot a meaningful look at David. "It works." The prince nodded, remembering the cell he'd built in the Enchanted Forest, and lowered his head.

Rumple stepped out into the hazy winter afternoon.

"Wait!"

He had no choice. The dagger's magic gripped him, locking his legs.

Regina caught up to him, touched his shoulder lightly. "Here." She offered him the dagger in her open palms. "This belongs to you."

Their eyes conveyed a lifetime of memories between them as he lifted the dagger from her hands, but all he said was "Thank you." It was his apology and his promise to her.

"You'll find Belle in the library." It was her apology and promise to him.

He stepped out into the driveway and vanished.

* * *

He'd been home for four days before he was ready to share his experiences with Belle.

Well, technically, not exactly home: he'd spent two nights in the hospital, undergoing examination after examination. His body needed the rest and the nutrients, so he didn't complain too much; more importantly, Belle needed the reassurance. On the evening of the first night, to his amazement, he had visitors during visiting hours, and not just Belle and Dove: Emma and David stopped in to assure him Zelena was where they had promised she would be, under lock, key and fairy dust. "If you're up to it, I need to get a statement from you," David advised.

A somewhat guilty glance shared between the three of them prompted Belle to volunteer, "We should go home and pack a bag for you: clothes and toiletries. Anything else you'd like?"

"Thank you, sweetheart. My iPod? It's been a long time since I heard any music."

"Of course. We'll be back tomorrow morning. Shall we, Mr. Dove?" She linked her arm through Dove's.

The big man took the hint. "Certainly, Ms. French. I'll leave my phone with you, just in case, sir." He fished into his coat pocket. "Good night."

Belle bent to kiss Rumple's cheek. "Sleep well, darling." He smiled his thanks as the best friends he had in this world granted him his privacy.

"I'll make it brief," David said. "I've got statements from Snow and Emma and fifteen other witnesses, but you know more than anybody else about what she's done."

"I hope you have plenty of pens, because I have a lot to say," Rumple said grimly. Later, when he was alone and tucked into the hospital bed after lights out, he would marvel that such a sentence had come from his mouth. He'd never given a long statement to anyone about anything, but now, somehow, he felt the need to unburden himself. It made sense, he assured himself; the more they knew about how Zelena had treated him, the stronger the case against her would be. Though, he suspected that when it came down to it, there were certain experiences he would never discuss with a public official. . . .

He would have to tell them to Belle, however. He would be forgiven if he released the story to her in chunks; to tell it all, in one session, would overburden her and would throw him into inescapable nightmares. But she would need to hear it all eventually, to understand him, and to decide whether she could accept such damaged goods. . .as her husband. He supposed he should thank Milah for that. He'd learned the hard way that spouses needed to talk, even about the unbearable aspects of their lives.

As he stared at the emergency light over the door to his private room, he wondered how long it would take before he felt whole again, and ready to be a partner in marriage. He knew enough about medicine as it was practiced in this world to suspect he would be carrying the burden of Zelena, and before her, Cora, and before them, Pan, and before him, Hook, for a very long time. PTSD, the experts called it. He'd need some help to carry that load. Over the course of a very long and eventful lifetime, he'd had innumerable occasions to ask for help, but he'd learned, even before he learned to walk, not to bother: even those responsible for his care would ignore or, even worse, slap him down for his plea. So he had no reason to expect a different result now— _especially_ now, now that he was rich and powerful, feared, envied and hated. Yet when the thought first occurred to him that not only did he have the need and the right to ask for help, but that he could reasonably expect to receive it, he couldn't shake it.

His gaze shifted to the cell phone on his nightstand, glowing cheerfully in the dark. He reached for it and dialed.

As soon as the next morning, he praised his decision to make that call. It was the second right choice he'd made since being physically set free; that call was the key to his emotional freedom. Archie came to the hospital right after breakfast- _not_ during visiting hours; Whale perceived psychological therapy just as necessary as the physical and, in fact, on the morning of his third day in the hospital, informed Rumple that he was releasing him into Hopper's care.

* * *

"Just a quick last check of the vitals," Whale said officiously as the nurse strapped a blood pressure cuff to Rumple's arm. He made little thoughtful sounds as he popped a thermometer in Rumple's mouth and examined his pupils. "Uh-huh. . . hmm. . . uh-huh. . . ."

"What does _that_ mean?" Belle dared. She was standing by with Rumple's suitcase packed and his coat across her arm; Dove even had his car keys in his hand as a hint to urge the medical staff to get on with it.

"Not a thing. Just sounds that the public expects us physicians to make, to reassure them we're looking closely at every detail." When Belle swatted his arm, Whale chuckled and removed the thermometer, then glanced at the blood pressure monitor. He made a few notes in his iPad. "Okay, take off the shirt." He pressed a stethoscope to Rumple's chest. "Deep breath. . . release. . .deep breath. . . ." This went on a few moments before he moved to the back. "Deep breath. . . Hmmm."

"Don't start that again," Belle grumbled.

"No, this one means something." He pushed a finger against Rumple's right shoulder blade. "Perfect artwork. Never pictured you for the type, though."

"What?" Belle leaned past Whale to look. "Oh!" She stroked Rumple's left shoulder blade. "When did you—did _she_ do these?"

Rumple twisted at the waist to glare at the two people examining him so intimately. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Hold still." Whale took a photo with his iPad. "I'm referring to your tattoos. Why didn't we notice these before, when I took your vitals the first time?" He checked his iPad notes. "'Right and left shoulder blades: two-inch long scars, probably caused by old knife wounds.' But the scars aren't visible now." He raised an eyebrow at Belle. "Are you saying he didn't have these tattoos before—or in typical Gold fashion, that he never took his shirt off in front of you?"

"Not funny, Doctor." Belle folded her arms.

"Let me see." Rumple snatched the iPad away and glanced at the photo. "Your photographic skills leave much to be desired." He looked closer. "Is this one of your unfunny jokes, Frankenstein?"

"Honest." Whale spaced his hands out innocently. "You don't know about your own tattoos?"

"She must have done this." Belle gritted her teeth. "Her own version of a brand, I suppose. Except, they're actually quite attractive. Artistic. And I don't get the connection between Zelena and birds."

Whale pressed his finger against the right shoulder blade. "An eagle." He moved to the left blade. "And a dove. You really didn't know about these, Gold?"

"No!" Rumple tossed the iPad aside and conjured two mirrors, requiring one to float behind him and the other to project its mate's reflection back to him. He was silent as he studied the image. Finally he admitted, "No, I didn't know, but these are definitely not _her_ markings." A hazy half-memory rose in his mind, but he couldn't clarify it. "They're okay," was all he could offer. "They're supposed to be there."

"Who put them there?" Belle wanted to know.

"Why?" Whale asked.

"I'll give you the fully story later," Rumple assured Belle. "I just need some time to pull my thoughts together."

She stroked his arm as Dove handed him back his shirt. "Of course."

"I think they're meant to be reminders." Rumple hastily slid his arms through the sleeves. "To be brave and to love." Uncomfortable, he clambered to his feet. "Mr. Dove, my coat, please."

* * *

They enjoyed one quiet day just getting reacquainted, and then, on the fourth day, it was time to open the first door of his secrets to Belle.

He sat her down on his couch and he sat in the rocking chair across from her. He'd poured them tea and flicked on just one small table lamp; the dimmer light made it easier to talk. He sat with his arms resting on his knees as he searched a long time for the right words to begin; she didn't push. Finally he decided to start by telling her what he _wouldn't_ be telling her. "This isn't about Zelena. Not yet. I will tell you about. . . that. . . later, a little at a time. But I'm not ready to start."

"All right," she said. "One step at a time." She knew he was seeing Archie in daily sessions.

"This is about something else. You might have difficulty believing me, but after all you've seen of magic, you know in your heart that the strangest things are possible."

"I'll believe you, Rumple." She reached across the coffee table to squeeze his knee. "You can tell me anything."

He looked deeply into her eyes in search of deceit or hesitation but found none. Long ago she'd promised him forever; neither of them had known at that time she was pledging not only her service but her loyalty. As he searched her face the extent of her pledge was made obvious, and he sighed, relieved. He stammered in the beginning, the offer to share himself fully with another person being so foreign to him, but gradually, as she continued to listen, holding his hand in encouragement, and her trusting expression never faltered, he found his footing. "Then, this is about something that happened to me, to us. . . in another future. One that the Fates never intended and that the gods had to fix. A future in which we had a son who grew up tall and powerful and full of anger, corrupted by an evil fairy. I'll tell you that story, but bear in mind, it was the wrong future. The one we were meant to have. . . and are charted for now. . .is a much better story in which we have a son who grows up to be the sorcerer whose coming Merlin predicted, the Dark Savior. A product of our True Love."

Her eyes wide, Belle dug her fingernails into the arm of the couch. "A hero for all time."

"This starts, as all my futures do, with the dagger." And he told her the story of the Shears and his visit to Olympus.

And she believed him, as she believed _in_ him. She swore that this time, with this second chance, they'd honor the gods and the voices of their hearts.

A week later, she proposed to him. They married, in a huge ceremony held on the convent lawn, the day after Zelena's trial ended and the witch, having been found guilty, was banished to Wonderland.

* * *

In an abandoned but surprisingly well-kept mansion on the outskirts of Storybrooke, the newlyweds shared their first night as husband and wife. To their amazement, when they timidly entered the unlocked house, they discovered a hot, five-course gourmet meal, with China and silver and lit candles, awaiting them in the dining room. A parchment resting upon one of the plates explained everything: "Dear Belle and Rumplestiltskin," it read. "Welcome to my house. As I no longer need it, I thought it would make a peaceful getaway spot for your honeymoon. Enjoy. Yours truly, Merlin."

"How thoughtful!" Belle exclaimed. "But didn't Merlin—"

"I'm not so sure I believe in death any more. Just a moving on to a new land," Rumple said. "Let's eat. Would you care for some soup, sweetheart?"

Later that evening, as she lay in the four-poster bed in the master chambers, Rumple stood over a round box he'd discovered as they poked around their temporary home. He'd recognized it immediately, and nearly as immediately he'd recognized its potential: Nimue had made certain he didn't overlook it. "The Sorcerer's Hat. Fill it with magic and then it can break the dagger's hold on you. Fill it with magic and you'll be free forever." He slipped the box into a drawer to hide it from Belle.

"Take the savior's power: Emma has so much and she won't use it anyway," Nimue urged later that night. "And Regina: power makes her miserable. Drives a wedge between her and Henry. You'll be doing her a favor. And the fairies. They love being nuns here. They don't need magic. It just gets in the way. Take it, take it all and you'll be free."

As Belle lay, smiling in her sleep, Rumple crawled carefully out of bed and dressed himself, buying time as he struggled to turn Nimue's yammering off. His skin felt clammy and cold. He retrieved the box and stared at it a long time, speculating. "Take it," Nimue begged, and you can leave Storybrooke. "You can take Belle somewhere safe. You can give her the life she dreams of. Protected by your power. Safe from your enemies."

"I owe her this," he answered Nimue. He reached for the dagger and opened the box, releasing its magic. It was beautiful.

A blinding pain consumed his thoughts and drove Nimue's voice from his ears. He moaned, grabbing his head, wrestling the pain down. When it dissipated, he heard himself say aloud, "My son," and somehow he knew he didn't mean Bae. A voice behind him pleaded, "Help me, Father." Then his head and vision cleared and all the voices, including Nimue's, went silent. A piece of knowledge wrapped in certainty came to him then: His name is Gideon.

He closed the box and shoved it deep into the drawer.

* * *

Dr. Whale pointed to a speck in a foggy blob on a screen. Dutifully the Golds squinted but a shared shrug between them confessed that neither could see what Whale wanted them to see. A bit frustrated, Whale insisted, "That's him. I know he's tiny now, but believe me, he's there, he's fine, and in five months you'll meet him in person."

"Him? It's a boy, for sure?" Belle leaned in to the monitor.

"Yeah. See? That's his—well, he's a boy, for sure."

Belle leaned back on the examining table, folding her hands across her belly, only to tangle them up in the monitor wires. She didn't notice; she was too busy daydreaming. "Harvard or Yale? Or Stanford? Do you suppose he'll have my eyes or yours? Will he be an inventor, like you, or a bibliophile, like me?" She turned her head to the side to smile at her soon-to-be co-parent and reach for his hand. "And he'll grow up to be the sorcerer that Merlin foretold."

"And carry with him the blessings of the gods." Rumple smiled back.

Packing up his equipment, Whale muttered to his nurse, "What'd I tell you? First-time parents, they be cray-cray."

* * *

In a clearing in the West Woods of Storybrooke, a crowd of people had gathered. As the adults chatted, their children scampered about, playing tag. From an iPhone, the Wiggles sang songs in praise of babies. On a long folding table, a banquet awaited, and the dwarfs kept eyeing the canapés, sandwiches, cake and punch. In the center of the crowd, Belle swapped diapering tips with Snow, while Rumple permitted Nova to chuck Gideon under the chin. When Gideon burped in response, everyone laughed.

"Attention, everyone." Blue clapped her hands. "It's time to start." As the guests called their children to their sides and seated themselves, Rumple shifted his son from one arm to the other and took his position alongside Belle at the front. Archie and Blue were waiting there for them. "Good morning, everyone," Archie announced. "In the tradition of Belle's homeland, Avonlea, we have gathered here this lovely spring morning to welcome into our community a new arrival—only four weeks old, but already much loved, by all of us, as well, of course, as his proud parents. Ladies and gentlemen of Storybrooke, we welcome to the world the son of Belle and Rumplestiltskin, Gideon Gold."

Applause greeted the baby as Archie bent to kiss his forehead. "May you always feel protected and cherished in your town, Gideon."

"And in the tradition of Rumplestiltskin's homeland, the Frontlands, we, the magic-wielders, come bearing gifts of blessing, which we will now bestow." Blue, in her fairy size, flew up in the air and touched the baby with her wand. "Gideon Gold, I bring to you the gift that your mother wished for you: that you will grow up to be strong and brave." A spark of magic transferred from her wand to Gideon's forehead, causing the baby to wave his arms. Blue smiled at the crowd. "He's practicing his magic already." Everyone laughed.

One by one, the fairies gave their gifts, then Emma offered, "May you always know who you are and where you came from."

Regina was last. She stiffened a little as she took the baby in her arms: it had been so long since Henry had been this portable. "Master Gold, as mayor of Storybrooke, my gift to you is a good school and a good library to educate you. And if I have to, I'll use my magic to make sure the city council funds them." When the chuckles died down, she continued, "But seriously, my blessing to you is the hope that you accept both the darkness and the light that live within you, and that you learn to draw upon them both when you need them, and that you always feel whole."

Archie smiled out at the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes—"

"Wait a minute." In a flash of light, a beautiful woman in a white gown appeared at Rumple's side. "Sorry I'm late. Can I—?" She held out her arms and Rumple gave her the baby.

"Belle, this is Aphrodite. To whom I owe much," Rumple grinned.

"Nice to meet you, Belle. Though, in a way, I already have."

"Welcome, Aphrodite, and thank you for everything." Belle squeezed the goddess's arm. "I hope you can stay for the reception?"

"Thanks, Belle. We don't get invited to too many parties these days." Aphrodite smiled at the baby. "Now, as for you, young man, I've already given you one of my best gifts: parents who truly love each other and you. So what I'm giving you today is my promise that when you're grown up, you're going to know a love as true and accepting as your parents have, though, not as filled with drama." She kissed the baby, then returned him to Rumple. "Oh, and Zeus and the gang sent something for you, too." She pointed to the tree over their heads. Everyone looked up into the branches, and a red-winged bird called out to them, arching its long neck.

"What is that?" Belle wondered.

"That, little mother, is a Phoenix. It will appear to Rum whenever he needs a reminder."

"A reminder of what?"

Aphrodite shrugged as if the answer should be obvious. "That the Fates gave him a second chance, and that the gods are rooting for him." She kissed Rum's cheek. "Always. Now, let's eat, huh?"

* * *

"Hello, Mother."

An overhead light snapped on, causing the newborn to wail. Belle rushed to the crib and scooped him up, pressing the glowing infant to her glowing chest. "Humph," the Black Fairy observed. "Protection spells. And some pretty powerful wards on your house. You were expecting me."

"We all were." A blonde woman in a red jacket suddenly appeared at Belle's side, and at Rumple's, a sneering brunette. Behind the crib and Lanhyddel, the Blue Fairy hovered.

Lanhyddel threw a greeting over her shoulder. "Hello, sister." She narrowed her eyes at her son as three pairs of glowing hands and a shimmering wand were raised. "Surrounded by magic. Very good, Dark One."

"Let's take this outside. Belle and I spent weeks preparing this nursery. I don't want it messed up." Rumple snapped his fingers, transporting the entire party, minus Belle and the baby, to his garden.

Lanhyddel brushed at her sleeves as if chasing away his magic. She sniffed the night sky. "Lovely. Roses and—is that lilacs? A pity it's too dark for us to appreciate the colors of the blooms." She turned about, pretending to peer at the flowers, but she fooled no one: her magic was subtly tasting her opponents' strength. "I would have enjoyed a tour of your home, son."

"Then you should have come to the front door and knocked, like a normal guest does." His hands were folded before him but glowing with magic.

She wrinkled her nose—to his chagrin, he recognized the gesture as one he'd often used in toying with an enemy. "Well, seeing as I've arrived in an inconvenient time, I'll just say tootle-ooo."

"We have to take this to its conclusion, Mother. I can't let you come back." He raised his hands now. Around him, the other mages stood ready, but they understood this was his fight. If he lost, they would stand between Lanhyddel and Belle.

"Waiting for me to throw the first punch?" the Black Fairy cooed. "Such a gentleman. I know you didn't learn your manners from the man who raised you." She casually tossed a fireball at him, intending to distract him as her wand summoned lightning from the sky. She flicked a barrage of bolts at him: he deflected them easily with a magical shield.

"Playtime's over," she announced, then sent a wall of swords flying at him. As he whacked them aside, she sent an earthquake under his feet; he elevated himself free of the crumbling earth. She had a preference for medieval weapons, knives and maces and catapults, even an iron maiden that he changed into a garden rake and sent back at her. Her elemental magic was quite strong: she encased him momentarily in a block of ice, but flames licking from his lips melted his cage. She was quick, clever and imaginative, but so were he and the twenty Dark Ones inhabiting his brain. At dawn neither seemed to be running out of ideas or magic.

"I congratulate you, Rumplestiltskin. You're powerful and smart. You're worthy of being called my blood."

"I wish I could I could say the same. I truly do." He grunted as he broke through a wall of Uzis (bored with the old days, she'd moved on to modern weaponry). With a nod to the American history he'd studied with Henry, he stuffed the gun muzzles with daisies. "Gideon deserves to have at least one decent grandparent from my side of the family."

"What makes you think I'm not? A lot of years have passed since we saw each other last. I may have changed, for all you know." She held an open hand out, urging him to take it. Her voice softened and her eyes pleaded. "Even a powerful sorcerer needs love, Rumple. Your relationship with Belle proves that. Why not let me have a chance to show you I'm capable of change, too?"

"No," he growled. "I won't let you use hope as a weapon, and you're not getting your hands on my son." Without a single gesture, he vanished, only to reappear behind her. He threw his arms around her, holding her immobile in his grip as he yanked her wand away and tossed it to Blue. A leather cuff clamped itself onto her wrist. "A keepsake from my foster father. It inhibits magic." A pin appeared in his hand and he pricked her finger with it, catching drops of blood into a magic vial, which he transported to Regina. "So we can cast a protection spell on this town to keep you out."

"Let me go, son. I can't do anything against you now." She inspected the cuff. "I feel it draining me. Making me weak and sick. Let me go and I promise—"

"No promises. You're going home now. I have no doubt you'll someday find a way out again, but we'll be waiting. And as soon as he's old enough to control his magic, Gideon will be taught how to defend himself against you." He pressed his mouth against her ear. "Know this, Mother: it's not just us. The gods are fighting on our side."

"Rumple, wait—"

"Goodbye, Mother." He kissed her cheek even as he conjured a cloud to carry her back to the Blacklands. "You won't believe me, but I wish you well." As she vanished, he added, "And I forgive you."

His collaborators watched Lanhyddel disappear. After a long moment, Regina cleared her throat and examined the vial of blood. "What do you know? It's black." She gave him a rueful smile. "Seems like, when it comes to mothers, we both got the short end of the stick."

"Our children didn't."

"I'd say they got pretty good dads, too," Emma added. "I'm hungry. Anyone up for Granny's? I'm buying, Gold."

"You're inviting me?" Rumple blinked. He couldn't remember a time when anyone except Belle had ever invited him to dinner. It was a momentous occasion. "Thank you."

"Belle too, of course."

He cleared his throat. "Well. Let me check with my wife."

* * *

It was long past midnight when they finally got Gideon tucked in, but Belle supposed, under the circumstances, it would be better for him to hear the laughter of adults and feel loving arms surround him before he closed his eyes, so he wouldn't have nightmares of Lanhyddel. Maybe too, she admitted, she didn't want to let her baby go just yet.

That reluctance carried over even after they returned from Granny's and she laid Gideon in his crib. She and Rumple sat down together in the nursery rocking chair, she in his lap, her head resting on his shoulder. They spoke quietly, to avoid disturbing the baby. "Are we through with it for now?" she sounded frustrated.

He stroked her hair soothingly. "Gideon will be grown man, perhaps a father himself, before Lanhyddel manages to escape the Blacklands. And he will defeat her; the Fates have written it."

"I mean, all of it." She sliced her hand through the air dismissively. "All of _them_."

"I don't know, sweetheart. All of my major enemies have been vanquished now, but there will probably be revenge seekers whom I don't even remember." He kissed her forehead. "But what I do know for sure is that we needn't be afraid for what might happen. We've been given all that we need to fight back."

"Each other," she agreed sleepily. "And magic."

"And friends who are rooting for us," he added wondrously. "So many friends."

* * *

 **A/N. Thank you for reading this story.**


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